


Of Books and Memories and Snow

by vorkosigan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (but not seriously), But mostly fluff, Cabin Fic, Common Cold, Cuddling & Snuggling, Even More Clueless Tony, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Gentle Tony, Gentler Steve, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Melancholy Mood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, More Fluff, Mountains, No Accords Wank, Not Really Snowed In, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation Already in Progress, Sick Fic, Skiing, clueless Steve, it's basically just fluff, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-30 11:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10876335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: Even if Steve and Tony are sort of talking again, the unease between them is still palpable. Steve wants to talk things over again. The last thing Tony wants right now is to ruminate over the past. He finally has a weekend off (or as near as), and he decides to go skiing in his old family cabin he hasn't visited in many years. Inviting Steve along seems like a good idea at the tim...No.No, it doesn't, it really doesn't, but it's beginning to look like the only option. Also, catching a cold really wasn't a plan at all...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreyrugr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreyrugr/gifts).



> This is post Civil War fluff, so be warned. There is almost no real angst. There are almost no discussions of what happened, or of the Accords, not this time around. If that's what you are looking for, you could look at one of my other fics. In this 'verse, that's all pretty much settled already. Right now I just wanted to write something fluffy and sweet. Don't like, don't read, plenty of fish in the sea and all that :) 
> 
> For dreyrugr, who asked for a sick Tony fic like six months ago. I finally got around to it :)
> 
> Also, I'm making this a fill for my free field on the bingo card (because I need to get started on it).

It was late in the afternoon, and dark already.  When Tony heard the knocking on the door, in the middle of the fucking Alps, he knew well who it was. After all, he had invited him over. He checked his stupid tablet for reception once again, but no use. Sneezed. Blew his nose one more time, but it was futile, really, because he apparently had a nice snot industry going there; there was no stopping the machinery once it was, quite literally, running. He walked to the door, opened it.

 

"Tony," Steve said. A gust of wind blew inwards, showering Tony's feet with whiteness, making him shudder. He wrapped the bathrobe tighter about him and sneezed again. Fished for a handkerchief in his pocket.

 

It was the first time Tony had seen Steve since Siberia, and of course it had to be amidst all the snow and cold, all over again. It was his own fault entirely, that it happened here. _Seemed like a good idea at the time_.

 

Steve was – Steve, strangely Steve-like in all his Steveness, despite a three-day beard and skiing goggles pushed to the top of his head. He had a skiing onesie on, a dark blue one with red and white details (because, of course he would pick that pattern, of course). It looked brand new. So brand new Tony could almost believe it was _still_ in the shop window, despite the evidence to the contrary.

 

Steve wore an insecure half-smile and no beanie (the idiot). Snowflakes played in his hair. If he stood there much longer, he would probably turn into Olaf. He held his skis in his left hand like a foreign body of  undisclosed loyalties.

 

Tony knew he should say something. He knew that. This took too long. But when he finally opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was a weak cough (into his hankie, carefully).

 

Tony forced himself to step back so that Steve could come in. Steve, however, seemed frozen at the door.

 

 "You're sick?" His voice sounded mildly worried.

 

A nod. Then, since Tony felt a better explanation was in order, he added: "I have a mother and a father of all colds, thanks very much for asking, and the electricity's out too." _Needlessly whiny_ , he mused. He paused for a second. "I can't talk tonight, Cap."

 

Because, that was the point, really. That was why Steve had asked to see him, that was why Tony said yes. Talk. Tony glared at the man. Perhaps undeservedly, but suddenly he was angry. It was easier that way. Anger was easier than the cold dread that had been snacking on him like a woodworm ever since they'd agreed on the arrangement. "I can't talk," he repeated somewhat viciously and stepped forward, as if to block the way. _We don't have to talk_ , he wanted  Steve to say. _We don't have to talk, we don't have to do anything you don't want to. Let's just sit in peace and..._

 

Instead, Steve looked stubborn. "I thought that was why I came here. I thought that was the purpose."

 

 _All the way here, to this Swiss backwater that can only be found via GPS, on the one day you picked out_ , was just implied.

 

Tony knew he was right, he knew this was deserved. And he wasn't feeling that bad, really, apart from the nose and the cough. He didn't even have a proper headache. But he also suddenly knew, with all his being, that he couldn't do this. Not because he was drowning in snot, nor because his knees were jelly (all that was surmountable). He just _couldn't_ do it, and it was all there was to it, this had been a bad idea from the start. The apologies had been politely exchanged, there were a few polite voice messages, and he should have kept it at that. Politeness was good. Closeness wasn't. (Closeness was pain and dread, closeness was a million tiny needles stuck in your heart.)

 

He gestured at his swollen nose and his runny eyes. "Well, as you can see, I can't," he snapped.

 

Steve's face closed up. He was reading Tony right, Tony was sure of it.

 

"Are you sure about this?" It sounded strangely final.

 

Tony just nodded.

 

"I'll just go, then, shall I," Steve said, but it wasn't a question at all.

 

Irritation surged up in Tony. "Fine."

 

Steve turned away, put his skis down on the ground. Tony slammed the door at his back.

 

 _Fuck this_.

 

Tony made all of one step away from the door, when the realization hit him, when it crashed home. He practically fell over his feet, throwing himself back at the door, yanking at the doorknob.

 

" _Cap!_ " he yelled into the night, pushing at the door against the wind. He yelled on top of his voice (his throat punished him with searing, scratching pain at once, as well as with a sad, dry sound that was half-cough and half-whimper).

 

Steve was of course standing right there, as if he'd never even moved away, his right hand raised as if to knock again. (The skis still lay on the ground behind him, though.)

 

They stared into each other's eyes for a moment.

 

"You are not skiing off into the night, alone, in the middle of a blizzard, you ass," Tony snapped, at the same time as Steve said: "I'm not leaving you here sick, with no electricity, miles away from civilization."

 

It was a little funny, almost, Tony thought, the way they could glare daggers at each other. There was probably no better glarers than the two of them to be found in Switzerland. Or was that glarists? _Glaristi?_

 

"Don't stand there in the snow in your slippers," Steve added sourly, for good measure.

 

Tony moved back, a step, then two. He wore Howard's old bathrobe on top of his clothes (he had found it in his parent's bedroom, as if it had been put away yesterday, in an armoire that still smelled of mothballs). On his feet he had Maria's old slippers. To her eternal consternation, his mom had had huge feet, for a woman. Howard always said they were there to balance her grace and beauty out, and to keep her honest. He said they were counterweights that kept her from floating away towards the heavens. He said he would never get tired of charming her over and over again (although, in the end, he did).

 

Tony hadn't come here again since the day they died – not until now. In this place, it hadn't been 25 years.

 

He stepped back, and Steve picked up his skis and stepped in. Shook the snow from his hair like a big dog, took off his goggles, hanged them on the coat rack. Closed the door behind him.

 

 _Maybe it isn't too late after all,_ Tony thought.

 

Then, as an afterthought: _To keep all the warmth from leaking out of the room, naturally_. Because that was what he was talking about. It really was.

 

***

 

It had begun with a letter; there were two or three texts after that, soon to be replaced with voicemails. Steve wouldn't have chosen voicemails per se, but since Tony never picked up when he called, it was better than nothing. He always found a recorded message from Tony in his inbox afterwards, although he had no idea how it had got there. He was completely sure the phone never even rang. Tony would calmly apologize for being unable to talk at the moment. Sometimes gave a perfunctory reason, mostly not even that. But he never called Steve for real, not to talk. A pattern was emergent as much as getting beaten over the head with a hammer could be called emergent.

 

Steve resigned himself to this, bit by bit. The work on the Accords was limping along somehow (Steve gave his – very thoughtful and careful – suggestions to Clint to pass along to Natasha, who gave them to Tony even before they started the so-called talking). He went for a hearing with the U.N. Some countries abjured his fugitive status, some didn't. Nothing was finished yet, but there was work being done in that department.

 

Both Tony and Steve had apologized to each other, via voice messages. Accepted. They proceeded to exchange small, unimportant news this way, on and off. Asked after each other's health. They would fill a few minutes with noise, then hang up.

 

In the beginning, when Sam asked, Steve insisted he would fix this. He and Tony were friends, they cared about each other, right? They could overcome this.

 

It had been months.

 

Months of horrors of forced small talk and unnatural politeness they had never stooped to before. And it was pretty much always he who took the initiative.

 

Everything was becoming clear as day.

 

Perhaps relentlessness wasn't always a virtue, he figured. Perhaps you _shouldn't_ be doing something all day, or month or year, even if you could. He couldn't force Tony to reconcile with him for real. Perhaps the ability to let go of a hope was a virtue too, sometimes.

 

Once, he told himself. He would ask one more time, directly, and that will be it.

 

_Hello. Hi. It's Steve. How are you doing of late? Listen, Tony, I... want to say something. I know you haven't forgiven me for my part. I'm beginning to think you never will. Do you think we could try to talk about it? Face to face? That is, if you want to. If you say no, or if you say... something like 'what are you talking about, Cap, we're all good' – well, I'll know. I'll leave you alone. Actually, just tell me what you want and I'll do it. I still consider you my friend, Tony, and... Well, I figured you probably don't return those feelings right now, but I would like a second chance. If not, all right. Your choice is your choice. I am going to miss you. And we can still work together when we need to, no question about that. But this right now is... I would really like a chance to talk to you, that's all, so please let me know._

 

He knew he wasn't really skilled with words. Braced for the likely outcome, he left the message. Already, he missed so many people in his life; he knew what to do with that, it was almost a special skill set. Loss was an old friend. He could wrap himself in it, keep it close to his heart and make it his armor. It wouldn't be the first time.

 

 _Not knowing_ was what he couldn't take. A man is an animal cursed with undying hope, and that was his problem.

 

Almost 24 hours went by. And then the telephone actually _rang_. Hope bucked and went wild in seconds.

 

"Tony?"

 

A sigh. "Hi, Cap." In the two short words, he could hear arrant weariness that had been absent from Tony's earlier messages and especially from Tony's public appearances. There was something genuine about it now. Too tired to pretend. "How's it going?"

 

 _Did you get my message?_ That was a stupid thing to say. What wasn't?

 

Silence stretched.

 

Then, Tony again. (He was always the more talkative one anyway.) "Look, what I wanted to tell you is... I really don't have the time for this."

 

Steve's heart fell. Hope fled, the fickle beast that it was, to be replaced by... anger? No, resigned frustration would be a more accurate description, perhaps. Tony had left him to wait, and then, for the first time, he actually _rang_ – just to tell him no, apparently; to flush the hope out just so he could squish it more thoroughly.

 

"Don't you huff at me," Tony snapped. (Steve hadn't been aware of doing it; he compressed his lips.) "You still aren't cleared to enter the States," Tony went on. "I don't have the time to go gallivanting with you around the world. If you want, come by my cabin in the Swiss Alps next Friday, I'll be there. I'm hosting some kind of a corporate retreat, don't ask, it's something that I..." Tony fell silent mid-sentence, as if deliberately cutting off the flow of words. He took an audible breath. Somehow managed to sound even more tired. "Anyway. They are coming on Saturday. If you come by on Friday, we can talk in the evening, if that's what you want. I'll send you the coordinates. You could drive, I suppose, but honestly, the weather may be a little shifty..."

 

"Chopper and parachute," Steve interjected.

 

"Yeah, that might work better."

 

"I'll come."

 

"All right, then."

 

"Tony, I..."

 

"Look," Tony interrupted. "Can we skip the apologies and such? We've both said our pieces. Let's say we're done with that. I don't have the stomach. I'll meet up with you, and we'll talk. Since you sounded so fucking sad. Look, I want to see you too. I do. But, honestly, I'm not sure anything good will come out of this."

 

"Thank you."

 

Tony hung up.

 

Hope inclined its head and smiled shyly.

 

***

 

Something in Tony's stomach shifted to make room for a surprising little prickle of warmth as he regarded Steve taking off his onesie, still all flushed from the exertion and the cold. His eyes glinted in the firelight. Having him here was... not an act of rebellion, precisely.

 

_"Can I have a friend come with us?" Tony had asked of Howard just once, when he was fifteen._

_"You can invite a friend your own age, I suppose," Howard had replied calmly, well aware Tony didn't have any he'd want to bring along, and Rhodey was twenty at the time, and they both knew it was him Howard was referring to, and it wasn't the age that had been the problem for him._

 

Asshole.

 

But Howard would have approved of Steve being here, Tony thought. Even  (infuriatingly enough) after everything that had happened. He would never _not_ approve of Steve. And while Tony would normally find this thought a point of huge annoyance, here, in this place, where his childhood memories came to die, it was strangely comforting.

 

 _Mixed feelings galore_ , he mused. _The story of my life._

 

 _Howard would have been jealous_ , he realized suddenly, and it was kind of amusing, but he was to devoid of energy to care about any of this.

 

Which was... well, one big fat lie, but he kept telling it to himself in case it worked. He sneaked a look at Steve, at the familiar way he moved, the life he was bringing to everything around him. Tony couldn't decide if this kind of liveliness was a sacrilege or exactly what this place needed right now. But it was disturbing Tony's melancholy and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

 

"Want me to put some more wood on the fire?" Steve asked. The flames looked vigorous enough to Tony. When he'd come here, that morning, it was ice-cold in the house and it smelled of agedness and dust. Fire smelled new.

 

Still, "Nope," he said.

 

A pressure to talk seemed strong, and crippling, and the only way it could be conquered was perhaps by talking about something else.

 

"The wood's over there, in the chest." He nodded his head to the left. "In case you need it. Out through that door is the kitchen. I brought some supplies with me, so there's no need to cook. Also, it's freezing ass cold in there. I lit the fire in my bedroom, too. Actually, the stove is in the wall between there and my... my _old_ bedroom, so both rooms are going to be warm enough. You can sleep there. If you have to go to the bathroom, better take a jacket or piss in the pot, I don't care. I don't recommend showering, and besides, the pipes might be frozen anyway. If you need water, melt some snow. I have people that take care of this place, on and off; I honestly don't know what they were thinking."

 

***

 

In his wicking pants and a fleece sweatshirt, Steve felt strangely naked. This was ridiculous, he realized; Tony had seen him in his undersuit a million times. And he sort of avoided looking at Steve too much anyway, as he pointed stuff out around the cottage from his blanket fortress on the couch.

 

It was a little chilly in here, Steve had to admit, and he could have sworn there was a draft. (If he mentioned it, Tony would say something on the lines of 'it must be something only old people can feel'.) (No, he probably wouldn't, not any more.)

 

Steve had eyes only for him. Tony looked pudgy and young in a ratty old bathrobe, with an ancient pair of red sweatpants underneath. And regular knit woolly socks. There was something endearing about the picture, or there would be if Tony's eyes weren't as guarded, the muscles around his lips as tight.

 

Steve studied his face furtively as Tony talked about how Steve could take the small bedroom to the left. He looked tired, and it wasn't just the sickness. That tiredness seemed to be chronically etched into Tony's features; the fact hurt Steve almost physically. He felt it resonate in his own muscles. God, Steve had _missed_ him so. Just being in the same room with him seemed surreal. And still, it was deeply uncomfortable as they avoided looking at each other, as they tiptoed around each other.

 

Tony caught his studying look and arched an eyebrow at him. This wasn't accompanied with a smile. Steve fled to the appointed bedroom to dump his things, then, a minute later, he came back.

 

***

 

Tony watched Steve move around, noticed him take in his surroundings once again – the dusty mantelpiece with a big, kitschy grandmother clock on it (this was a graveyard of unwanted presents), sharing the space with an old alternator and a glass jar of 2d nails. Howard had loved fixing the cabin himself. The room was lit by the fire and a single candle Tony had dug up from the kitchen drawer and slapped into a coffee cup because he couldn't be bothered to look for a candlestick. The couch and a pair of armchairs had paled with age and dust. The bookshelves were, of course, timeless.

 

It was too intimate. Every object in here tugged at a different spot in Tony's heart. (Every person here, present and absent, tugged at something too.)

 

 _I shouldn't have come here._ He'd known that from the moment he'd stepped in. The new, small, shabby image of the place was battling for dominance with the way he remembered it, and he still wasn't sure which prospect would end up on top.

 

Steve seemed to be reading his thoughts. As he wiped his skis, very conscientiously, and checked them for dings, he said: "Is this where you are going to be hosting your corporate retreat?" He didn't look at Tony as he said it, and for some reason that was infuriating.

 

The mild incredulity in his voice spoke volumes. Tony bristled.

 

"Nothing wrong with the cabin," he said. The attempt at a cutting tone was spoiled by another sneeze. The hankie was embroidered silk, he'd found it tucked into the pocket of the bathrobe. That was what mom did. Always put clean handkerchiefs into the pockets of their clothes.

 

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Steve said looking around, eyebrows raised appreciatively. "I love the place."

 

"You do?"

 

"Yes, it's homey. It's just not... It doesn't look like you."

 

Tony had about a dozen possible replies to that, one snarkier than the next, but in the end he just sighed and muttered "Oh, who cares", inconsequentially, and dug himself deeper into his blankets. (The dust made him sneeze again. He should have taken the cleaner ones from the bedroom, but he'd wanted the old things from the upper floor with the red and brown pattern he remembered from his early childhood.)

 

Steve came over, sat on a stool opposite Tony. Made an attempt at a smile. (Which... didn't look half so bad, Tony mused.) "Can I make you some tea or something?"

 

Tony shook his head. Having Steve here filled him with strange longing: he wasn't sure for what exactly.

 

"I just meant, the places where you live tend to be more... well, modern?" Steve said, seemingly caressing the timber walls with his eyes.

 

A pang of pity in Tony's chest caught him by surprise. It was hardly possible for him to really understand Steve's feeling of displacement in the 21st century. It was there, he knew, but he could never penetrate the outer membrane of it. But now, here, where the past was almost alive... _Imagine stepping out from the cabin, the way it was back then, right into a different world, the modern world of the right now?_ And that would be only 25 years of a time hop. And it would be unbearable.

 

The empathetic insight shook him slightly.

 

"I hadn't been back here since mom and dad died, I couldn't stand it", he heard himself confess. Where the hell was that coming from all of a sudden? And then, the compassion that shone in Steve's face was too much, and a quick step back for Tony was in order, a retreat into the practical. "There used to be electricity here and everything," he added hurriedly. "There's an old TV – a huge, thick one, you've never seen anything like it, I think – it's in their old bedroom. And a VCR. That's... never mind. The wiring must've gotten screwy at some point. I felt too shitty to look into it today. But I didn't think the place would look like this. I could have had someone refurbish it, get new furniture..."

 

He knew he was babbling. _If it'd looked any other way, it would have been devastating,_ he realized.

 

"But your people didn't let you know about the electricity problem and the possible pipe problem?" Steve asked.

 

Tony opened his mouth to reply; reconsidered. "You know what," he admitted then, "I've honestly no idea. I didn't pay much attention."

 

"But tomorrow..." Steve began. Why the hell was _he_ worrying about that? Another sweeping look around, this time more assessing than appreciative. "Can I help somehow?" Because it was Steve, ever helpful; and yes, obviously, you couldn't have top level corporate people in a place like this, that was painfully clear. Luckily:

 

"I don't think anyone's coming, Cap," Tony admitted. (Tony hadn't planned to tell him that, because it was easier to have an out ready, but now all of a sudden he wasn't so sure he wanted an out.) "The last I checked before I lost the signal, the roads down there were getting snowed in. A freak storm, it wasn't in the forecast, obviously. I mean, the guys could technically take the ski lift to the peak over there" – he nodded towards the western wall – "and ski over with overnight bags, but I don't think anyone will. They'll probably stay in the resort and have fun. These are corporate folks; they are more about decades-old whiskey and shop talk than about the actual skiing."

 

Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A real smile hesitated on the verge of existence for a moment, then lit up his face. He seemed to be relaxing by stages. "They could come by chopper, but I didn't see a good landing spot out there. I doubt any of them would be up for parachuting in."

 

"Nope, not everyone has your war XP."

 

_Look at us, chatting away._

 

It almost felt more natural than Tony was comfortable with. That was... unexpected.

 

It wasn't that he hadn't forgiven Steve. He had. They'd both explained; they'd both understood. People screwed up. It happened. He'd wanted to move on, yet he hadn't been sure how to. He hadn't wanted to lose all contact, he had known that much. But the how, the why – it was easier to push the questions away and to work on everything else. Steve's request had felt like an ultimatum.

 

He didn't know what he wanted from Steve, if he wanted anything.

 

But having him here, not a yard away, so keen (keen on what?), so achingly familiar - it turned everything on its head. No, Tony didn't want to talk about what had happened. Talking would just dredge up bad old times. There was enough of the past around them as it was. But he didn't want to think too much about the future either. He pretty much just wanted to have this moment stretch indefinitely, with the two of them, in an undefined juxtaposition, and the firelight and the dust and the ancient memories.

 

It was getting so unduly cozy, actually, that Tony felt a pang of dread. _Oh, shit shit shit._ A bout of coughing was an almost welcome distraction.

 

"I..." He stopped; began again. "I don't feel so well, Cap. I think I'm going to go to bed, actually."

 

The flash of disappointment in Steve's face wasn't supposed to hurt so, was it? Was it?

 

***

 

The nervous energy coursing through Steve was pure torment. Tony had gone to bed. Steve got up and folded the blankets the man had left behind. Set them neatly down on a tabouret. Checked the fire again (it still didn't need any more wood added). The room was finally getting pleasantly warm – so much so that the fleece hoodie was becoming torturous, so Steve stripped to his wicking undershirt.

 

Tony had gone to bed, and just left him here; to Steve it had looked more like an escape than anything else. Closing your postern gate and retreating into the citadel.

 

He hadn't meant to be imposing. He hadn't, which was why he had _asked_ in the first place. _Come over, Cap. But no, I don't want to talk. Go. No, don't go. Stay. But I don't want to talk. So I AM going to go. You stay._

 

One moment Tony was warm, mellow even – which had immediately mellowed Steve in turn, he realized with chagrin –  just to grow cold again in a matter of minutes. Back and forth, back and forth. Like a pendulum. For a few beats there it had been almost homey, sitting there, talking to Tony; more normal then their normal. And then back to the stand-offish, all guards on positions, man the cannons.

 

(Steve walked to the mantelpiece, inspected the mess, wiped the dust lightly away with his sleeve.) 

 

_Why won't he tell me what he wants from me?_

Tony could drive him crazy like no one else could. That had been the case since day one. Still, Steve didn't think it'd bothered him this much back then (not so deeply, in any case, not on such an essential level).

 

(He opened the kitchen door, peeked in. Darkness and cold. It felt like a frozen hell.)

 

The closed door to Tony's room seemed like an affront.

 

 _All I'd wanted was to talk._ It felt like whining. It was true, though. Have a talk, clear the air. They still had things to say to each other. He wasn't sure what exactly – as for himself, he'd said his piece in a long voice message, and Tony had heard it. He'd responded. That was it, that was all. So why did it feel unfinished? Like there was something there, left between them, either unspoken or broken (Steve couldn't tell). Perhaps this was it, and it couldn't be fixed, and it couldn't be mended or bridged, and he just needed to accept it. Maybe there was no coming back from certain things after all.

 

(Even more restless, all of a sudden. Pacing back and forth. Trying to read the book spines, but words not reaching further than his eyes.)

 

 _Is Tony doing this on purpose?_ Steve felt guilty immediately. So, he was sick. Well. _Am I supposed to be more compassionate?_ The thing was, he _was_. There was something primal in him that wanted to wrap Tony in a blanket like a burrito and sit him in front of the fire and feed him soup. There was also another part of him that shrugged and thought: It's a common cold, it doesn't make your tongue dysfunctional. You drink a cup of tea, you walk it off. This was decision, not incapacitation.

 

Purposefully, Steve walked to Tony's door. At the last moment, he changed his mind and went into the next room.

 

He heard a weak  cough through the wall, a soft curse. Batted at the quiet dread that had been buzzing around him like a fly (Steve had been trying to ignore it). Waves upon waves of what-ifs. Because, because... it wasn't impossible, was it, that this was something worse than a common cold, and they were in the mountains, and it was snowing, and there was no cell signal (Steve had checked), and what if what if what if...

 

Angry at himself, he hurried to the bathroom, picking up the candle along the way, to check if there were any antibiotics in the locker (there were, as well as paracetamol and ibuprofen and an assortment of other useful stuff, all miraculously within the expiration date – must be the work of Tony's 'people' whose missives about the cottage the man apparently never read).

 

And when Steve went back to what had apparently been Tony's childhood bedroom, a little more at ease now, he set the candle down on the desk. And he noticed how tiny it was: a kids' desk, probably made for someone all of ten years old. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Something in Steve shifted, then shifted again. Gently, he ran a hand over the surface, with all the dents and scratches and burn marks (from... welding?). And unsure why exactly, he covered his mouth with his hand and whispered: _Oh, God._

 

The red bed cover, the toy train, a pair of pint-sized skis (his heart practically stopped at the sight of the skis). It felt too intimate, even being in here. It felt like a violation. Stepping into a life that wasn't his, seeing something he wasn't supposed to be privy to. And yet, Tony had told him to come here, and given him this room to stay in, and Steve remembered the softness in his eyes when he looked around the sitting room and touched upon the topic of his parents during that one short moment when it had seemed something between him and Steve was thawing.

 

A peculiar hunger in his soul won over the feelings of propriety and guilt. Sneaking around like a thief, he opened the armoire; took a peak inside all the desk drawers, one by one. Looked through the few toys in the basket under the bed. In the end he stopped in front of the bookshelf, and ran a finger along rows upon rows of kids' books, interspersed with some textbooks and manuals. Reading the spines. This time around, absorbing every word.

 

***

 

When Steve walked into the room, a tray with tea and salty biscuits in one hand, Tony was in bed, still in his bathrobe. Light and shadows from the fire chased one another around the furniture; the brightness from the StarkPad Tony was working on fell upon his face like a spot of moonlight. The mildly feverish look made him appear more lively somehow; it suited him well. It wasn't at all fair, really.

 

The sight of Tony, in bed, with eyelids heavy and spots of color in his cheeks did things to Steve he wasn't sure what to do with. He stopped at the door, swallowed.

 

Tony let the tablet fall beside him, propped himself up on one elbow. He blinked at Steve a few times, sighed, shook his head. "All right, Cap," he muttered. "All right."

 

"Brought you tea," Steve said, still not moving away from the door.

 

"Thanks. I guess." He gestured to the bedside table, which was finally a cue for Steve to step in.

 

When he put the tray down, Tony's interest perked up. The biscuits were star-shaped and A-shaped and square, and Tony seemed to focus on them. "Are those Kambly?"

 

"Er..." Steve hesitated. Shrugged. "Found them in the kitchen. They're fresh." He had no idea what to do with himself now that he was here.

 

"Yellow can, like this big, right?"

 

Steve thought for a moment, nodded. "Want me to bring it for you?"

 

Tony considered for a moment, shook his head. "Nah."

 

"It's no problem. Really." _Yeah, go ahead, offer your biscuit-bringing services, prove yourself invaluable on that front. Maybe that will work._

 

"I..." Tony started; stopped. "They probably changed the design over the years. I don't want to..." He trailed off, made an abortive gesture with one hand, as if imploring Steve to get what he wasn't going to say.

 

"Oh," Steve said. And: "Yes. I understand," because he really did. And in that moment, as he watched Tony agonize over the ephemera of brand design, hair falling into his eyes – it suddenly dawned on Steve that yes, he could do this all day, all year if that was what it took; he'd come to a hundred cottages, on a hundred different mountains, even if nothing ever came of it, and no, he could not step back and let this go, let _him_ go, not now and not ever, because that wasn't who Steve Rogers was, and that was all there was to it, really. The warmth in his chest made his breath hitch.

 

Tony looked up.

 

It was as if he saw Steve for the first time since he entered the room. His eyes looked unusually mild in the firelight. "You brought me tea," he said very softly.

 

Steve nodded just once. Tony nodded back. Something unspoken passed between them, and for the life of him Steve couldn't tell what it was, but he knew breaking eye contact would feel like a loss. It lasted for a few seconds, and then somehow, everything seemed to flow more smoothly.

 

He passed the tea to Tony, who sipped it and made a face. "Never been a fan, but thanks?"

 

"You should drink it while it's warm."

 

"I'm... Look, I'm all right, Cap. I just need to rest for a bit. I'll be all good by morning."

 

"I heard you cough through the wall. The tea will do you good."

 

Tony rolled his eyes. "I can't win this one, can I?"

 

Steve just raised his eyebrows and didn't look away until Tony took another sip, and then another. He wanted to adjust his pillows better. He wanted to smooth his hair back, and tell him to leave the tablet alone and try to go to sleep. He wanted... a million different things, all of a sudden, and as he stood there, he wondered how come he hadn't been aware of this earlier, how he could have been so stupid.

 

"Do you want a paracetamol? I found some in the bathroom." That was the only thing he could think to say.

 

Tony laughed, which turned into another tiny cough. Steve knew coughs as the back of his hand. This one was the mildest of the mild. But still.

 

"I'm _fine_. You're a regular mother hen, did you know that?"

 

"Yeah," Steve said on his way out (because he could think of no excuse to stay). "I knew that." He closed the door softly behind him and gave it a conciliatory look.

 

***

 

The next time he went in, it was to bring Tony chicken soup. He'd found a can in the kitchen, poured it into a pan and warmed it over the fire in the sitting room. (That pan will never be the same again. Steve hoped Tony wasn't too attached to it.)

 

Tony was sitting by the window. By the light from his gauntlet, purposefully positioned on the window sill, he was rummaging through the desk, sorting through a number of small objects (batteries and pencil sharpeners and rolls of tape and screws of all sizes) grouped into haphazard-looking piles on the desk top. He raised his eyes to Steve without really raising his head; a corner of his mouth perked up. "More tea for me?" It was the mildest of sarcasms.

 

"What are you doing, Tony?"

 

"Organizing the drawers," he replied in an isn't-it-obvious sort of voice.

 

For a moment, Steve suppressed the amusement, then gave up and let it show. He shook his head. "Shouldn't you be in bed, though?" He walked over and put a cup on the desk in front of Tony. "Want some?"

 

"Soup? Really? You made me soup now?"

 

Steve crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. Tried for nonchalance. "It's chicken." Then, feeling slightly guilty, he added. "It's from a can, really."

 

"Oh, and here I thought you went hunting for fowl. How disappointing."  Tony took the cup and sniffed. Hummed appreciatively. Took a sip, then another. "Well, this doesn't taste like grass, at least."

 

Steve matched him, a small smile for a small smile. Tony was so close. His presence was like a magnet.  Steve could reach out and card his fingers through his hair, he could... "Still, shouldn't you be in bed?" he repeated mildly, instead, because thoughts were going renegade on him (Something was _happening._ _Was_ something happening? It was impossible. _Was_ it?), and a fog of sorts was coming over his senses, and his chest felt almost asthmatic all over again.

 

"I'm _fine_ , Cap," Tony said, but, to make everything worse (or better), he didn't even sound annoyed. He took another gulp of soup. "Just super bored." He gestured at his tablet morosely. "I've no concentration for anything serious. But I think I'm feeling a little better, actually." Belying his words, Tony scrunched up his nose and sneezed. Steve arched an eyebrow. "Dust?" Tony said with a tiny smirk. His eyes were too shiny, though, and a little watery, and when he shivered and wrapped himself tighter in his bathrobe although the air was dry and warm, Steve needed no other confirmation.

 

Before he could think about what he was doing, he bent down and pressed his lips softly to Tony's forehead. It was almost like someone else was doing it. But as he lingered there for a second, his lips against Tony's warm skin, a wave of thrill shook him. He stepped back quickly, flushed, opened his mouth to say something, to apologize.

 

Tony was staring at him with very round eyes.

 

Then, after what seemed like ages, in tones that would have been conversational hadn't his voice been slightly choked: "Cap, what are you doing?"

 

 _Oh, shit_ , Steve thought. (It was completely appropriate for the situation.) "I..." He picked up his courage; not saying anything would just make this more uncomfortable. "I thought that maybe you had fever. That's how my mom used to check." He shrugged defiantly, leaned back against the wall.

 

"Yeah... mine too," Tony said softly, toying with his silk handkerchief. Steve fixated on it, because it was an easy target. He hadn't seen a proper handkerchief like that one since he woke up from the ice; he'd thought they were an extinct species in this century.

 

Tony let the hankie fall to his lap; then, with a noncommittal half-wave at his gauntlet, glowing on the window sill, added: "I had Friday check me for fever."

 

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "That... would be more practical."

 

"Yeah," Tony said. "It's only mild, though."

 

Steve felt the heat in his own cheeks rise even higher. "Yes, I figured that."

 

They avoided each other's eyes. Sheepishness was so thick in the air it was making it impossible to breathe.

 

"So, I probably _should_ be in bed," Tony said at last.

 

"Yes, you should."

 

Tony drummed his fingers on the chair arm, still not moving. He was bored, and when he was bored, he tended to get restless; Steve knew that much. He started to say something, but a frog-like entity in his throat stopped it from escaping.

 

Tony rose.

 

Steve swallowed. "We could play cards or something," he managed finally. "If you want. You could be lying down," he added.

 

Tony just shook his head morosely as he crawled back into bed. "I don't _want_ to play cards." The irritability in his voice sounded almost childish. The fact that Steve found it equal parts annoying and endearing worried him slightly. He lingered for a second longer, fighting disappointment, but since he couldn't think of anything else to say, he turned to go. "I'll be in the next room if you need anything," he murmured.

 

He almost made it to the door before Toy said, "Cap." Then nothing else. Steve turned. Tony had a peculiar expression on his face. He hesitated. "Look, I know I'm a pain in the ass when I'm sick..."

 

"I've dealt with worse."

 

"Oh? When?"

 

Steve shrugged, arched a mocking eyebrow. "Field hospital?"

 

Tony chuckled. "Oh, I bet those damn wounded are real whiners, aren't they."

 

"Like you wouldn't believe."

 

"Cap, I..." He swallowed. "Thanks." For a moment there was something so vulnerable in his eyes that Steve badly wanted to do something stupid. Instead he managed to shrug noncommittally, fumbling for the doorknob behind his back as if it were a life belt. He just wanted to get out and _then_ be stupid in peace, out of sight. "You don't have to go," Tony blurted out. He looked a little stunned at his own words, but then he inclined the head for a second and owned them, as was his way. "You could stay and keep me company while I nap," he allowed with a grandiose gesture and a smirk. Seemingly no vulnerability left there, but Steve had a crazy feeling he could sense it just below the surface. "You could borrow a book or something," Tony added in more normal tones.

 

Steve realized he was fighting a smile – _again_ , he mused – and gave up. "I already did borrow one. I'll go get it." He hoped he didn't sound too eager, but in the end, there was no helping that, he supposed.

 

A couple of minutes later, forefinger of his right hand stuck between the pages although he hadn't yet read more than two or three, he was back. He contemplated the armchair by the window for a moment, but, perhaps because Tony was ignoring his presence completely, his eyelids halfway down, pretending to be engrossed in the fire – Steve decided against the chair. Instead, on a crazy impulse that had landed him in trouble in the past, he grabbed Tony's gauntlet to use as a light, and thumped down on the bed beside Tony, on top of the bed cover. It was a _big_ bed. There were at least three feet between them, the way Steve sat down, his back against the headboard. Still, he could feel the flush in his cheeks rise again and hated himself for it.

 

Tony _did_ react then. He turned halfway towards Steve, an eyebrow arched. Steve shrugged yet again.. Nodded curtly towards the window. "Drafts," he said with careful composure.

 

Tony's laughter reverberated through Steve's stomach. "Old people problems, then," Tony concluded. The sweet warmth of hope that was spreading through Steve's face was probably, he thought, unwarranted.

 

He raised his book to hide behind it.

 

Tony suddenly perked up. "Oh, is that _Watership Down_? That used to be my favorite when I was a kid." The cover looked like it had survived the invasion of Normandy in someone's backpack. That was exactly why Steve had picked this one – the tattiest, most worn one – off the shelf in Tony's old room. A weird sounding, very thick novel about adventures of a clairvoyant rabbit of all things. It didn't even read like a children's book. Steve cast a furtive glance at Tony over it and hummed noncommittally.

 

"I think I'm going to doze off now," Tony proclaimed, then turned to lie on his side, his back to Steve.

 

A peculiar excitement was coursing through Steve. He kept staring at the page, but his mind couldn't focus. He realized he'd read through at least three passages without being aware of one single word, so he went back and, painstakingly, started again. Tony was so close and warm and present, next to him on the bed. Steve had to fight not to keep glancing at him. _So_ , he thought sternly at himself, _you're done for, are you? Good job, Captain._

 

Barely two minutes passed. Then a small, muffled sound from Tony's direction and: "So, how far are you?"

 

Steve started. "Hm?"

 

"In the book."

 

"Oh. I'm just at the beginning."

 

"Yeah, I know, but what's happening?" Steve glanced over. Tony's back was still turned to him, but he seemed to be shifting.

 

"They just met with the Chief Rabbit," Steve replied. "You can't sleep?"

 

"Nuh-huh."

 

When Steve was sick as a child, his mom would sometimes read to him, when she had time. This wasn't like that at all and it was a silly idea. Firmly, he stomped on it. Stared at the page. Sneaked a look at Tony, who had now turned around and seemed to be blinking at him. In the firelight, his eyes looked huge.

 

"Do you like it so far?" Tony's voice was soft, and sounded a little strangled.

 

Steve had never really paid attention to how quiet it was around here. The wind outside had died down some time ago, and all that could be heard were the haphazard sounds of the house creaking, shifting in its sleep, and the crackling of the fire. In the silence and the firelight, every word seemed more significant, every movement more intimate somehow.

 

Steve nodded. He shuffled around so he was now lying on his stomach. Marginally closer to Tony. The book lay open on the bed before him. Like a bait, like a trap.

 

"And now I feel like reading _Watership Down_ too," Tony muttered. "If I had reception, I could download it."

 

"Or," Steve said very matter-of-factly, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, "we could just read together." He pushed the book to the side so that it was midway between him and Tony.

 

Tony was also lying on his stomach now. He shifted marginally closer. Steve didn't move. Their shoulders were almost touching.

 

"Do you want to go back to the beginning?" Steve asked. He could hear Tony's breathing so clearly. He imagined he could hear his heartbeat too, feel the warmth radiating off him. Like a small fireplace all his own. He bit the inside of his cheek.

 

"Nah," Tony said. "I still remember everything." He leaned over and started reading.

 

They stayed like that for a time, in silence, reading by the light of Tony's gauntlet, but Steve could barely concentrate.

 

Then, on an impulse: "Tony?", he ventured softly.

 

"Hm?"

 

"What was Howard like, as a dad?"

 

Tony startled, turned to look at him, gave him a frown. "Why do you ask now?"

 

Steve gestured vaguely about them, at the room in general. "Just curious."

 

For a moment, Tony drummed his fingers on the bed next to the book. A coldness sneaked into Steve's stomach, settled. _You just can't seem to keep your crap in check tonight_ , he thought at himself.

 

But: "Cold," Tony said contemplatively; he didn't seem miffed, just thoughtful. "Controlling, when he could be bothered." It was as if something in the air, in the smell of fire and the dim light, allowed for this kind of intimacy that wasn't their usual shtick. "But usually he couldn't be. Bothered." Tony hesitated for a moment again. "Around here, where there were no distractions, sometimes he wasn't so bad. Or maybe I'm just idealizing this place. I've no idea. Sometimes I think that..." He fell silent mid-sentence, then he turned his head, looked Steve full in the eyes. "What was he like as a friend, though?"

 

They'd never really talked about this. "Brilliant. Brash. Distant." Steve couldn't help a tiny, wistful smile that sneaked onto his face. "Always kept you on edge. You never really knew what hit you or where you stood with him."

 

Tony smirked. "So, a bit like me, basically."

 

"Some." There was something more to Tony's offhand comment, it occurred to Steve all of a sudden. He looked at Tony, really looked, at all the nooks and crannies of his face, the circles around his eyes, the tiny new lines that weren't all age. Tony opened his mouth to speak, but Steve beat him to it for once. "You've been trough much more crap than he," he said. "At least back when I knew him. And it..." For a long moment, he thought hard of what he was going to say next. Inhaled. "In my experience, it either turns people hard or it gives them compassion. When all's said and done, I think you came out a lot kinder than Howard ever was."

 

Slowly, thoughtfully, Tony nodded his head; once, twice. It seemed he had reached some kind of conclusion.

 

"You're a pretty fast reader," he commented casually, turning back to the book. "I thought I was going to have to wait for you for ages to turn a page, but you're actually not bad at all."

 

They didn't talk more that night. As if by a silent agreement, they returned to reading, weirdly and unexpectedly comfortable with each other, for one evening at least, and all that could be heard was the occasional rustling of the pages. It wasn't long before Tony dozed off. Steve tossed one more blanket over him, and took another for himself. He then lay his cheek down on the book and listened to Tony's soft breathing as the fire slowly died down to embers.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was a special kind of silence. Waking up to it, so very early, might have made Tony forget the _when_ for a moment, but never the _where._ Outside, he knew, the wind had stopped during the night, and snow had fallen and hushed the world. As soon as the sun  showed up from behind the mountains, the morning would turn quietly brilliant.

 

The bed was old, and he had a slight crick in his neck, but he was warm and snug, all wrapped up in blankets. The wintry freshness on his face, as a contrast, let him know the fire had died down during the night (crap, he’d forgotten to bank it), and now he’d have to get up and light it again. In a minute. He delayed opening his eyes. Savored the fact he could postpone the beginning of this day for a bit longer. If he didn’t open his eyes, there was a 50% chance he wouldn’t have to deal with anything.

 

The soft sounds of breathing  on the bed beside him messed up the percentage, though. (And fuck you, Schrödinger!). (But, honestly, fuck peace and quiet too.)

 

He’d have expected Steve to be a relaxed sleeper, like big people tended to be, to sprawl over the bed in all his length, arms and legs everywhere. The first (and the last) time they’d shared a bed, at Clint’s, Tony had woken up in the middle of the night, only to find Steve curled tightly around his own midsection in a corner of the bed, muttering in his sleep. Tony now opened his right eye and peeked. Steve was in the same fetal position, both palms pressed tightly together and tucked under his left cheek. The blanket was bunched around his middle. He was facing Tony, frowning in his sleep, face slightly scrunched up. Curled up as he was, there was something deeply anxious about his appearance.

 

The impulse to reach out and touch his hair, smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead wasn’t sudden. It crept up on Tony softly, like snowfall; he was pretty much grateful to fate both his hands were safely under the blankets before the impulse grew too strong.

 

Tony wasn’t checking him out, he really wasn’t. Just a moment of aesthetic appreciation, he told himself as he looked away. One single glance along his upper arm, along the biceps emphasized by the tight undershirt that Steve – unfairly – wore. It was difficult not to be appreciative of Steve’s looks. So, since the early days, Tony consciously didn’t indulge in looking. At first, because he didn’t _like_ Steve and his stupid attitude, and then because the man had grown on him, and he _did_ learn to like him, infuriating though he was – and it just didn’t seem right. It’d never been about Steve’s looks.

 

Quickly, Tony closed his eyes now. Despite the sinfully long lashes, or the ridiculous, patchy beard Steve was apparently trying to grow, he somehow didn’t look young at all. Just worried. Weren’t people supposed to look younger when asleep? Pepper’d looked like a baby.

 

Tony had pretty much considered himself a kid all the way into his early thirties. Until Afghanistan. Steve never did, ever since Tony met him. He’d been 26 at the time. Bore himself like someone with experience enough  for two lifetimes. Yep, torture and war made you grow up wonderfully fast.

 

Here he was, right here, almost surreally close. And Tony had gotten disused from the planes of his face in these few months, and everything felt new, and a little raw, like peeling off a scab too soon, while the skin underneath was still pink and achy. And then Steve had stayed, and brought the damn soup, and he had kissed Tony on the brow, and what the hell was that all about anyway? It had broken Tony’s heart in a million tiny pieces; he wasn’t even sure why.

 

His eyes closed, he lay there for a time, wondering why anticipation felt so close to apprehension, and, when he’s at that, why apprehension felt so close to dread, and why thee fuck it was so difficult to discern between the three. In that company, happiness was certainly an uninvited guest, and still, the cheeky thing was there, snaking through his stomach, warming him from the inside, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

 

***

 

Contrary to his expectations, he had managed to sneak out of the bed without waking Steve up, so he lit the fire in the living room, and scooped up some snow from the windowsill and melted it for coffee.

 

_Steve likes taking care of people. That’s his shtick, if you let him._

Tony also splashed his face with warmed up water, and all in all, he felt super-productive; he hadn’t sneezed once since he’d got up.

_It really meant nothing – the tea, the soup. Nothing at all._

 

He brushed his teeth.

 

Okay, not nothing, it was sweet and it was kind; and Tony had no idea whatsoever what to make of it or where to file it.

 

He decided to brave the kitchen and rummaged around the bag he brought, looking for something fitting for breakfast among all the caviar boxes and blue cheese and salmon spreads.

 

_A kiss on the brow is what you do when someone is dying. It had felt like a goodbye._

 

At that moment, Tony had fully expected Steve to walk out of the room and vanish; in the morning he would have already been gone, skied off to somewhere, away, to his rendezvous point with his chopper, or all the way to Italy, or whatever. Scrupulously having made the bed and removed all traces of his stay. And that would have been it. For them, it _would_ have been a goodbye.

 

Steve could still leave. He could get up, and see that Tony was better, and just... go. The truth was, they hadn’t talked, not really, and honestly Tony would rather do anything than dredge up all that again, but if he didn’t... then what? In all honesty, he’d offered Steve no reason to stay. All the interesting nuances of what had happened stayed safely  locked inside Tony’s head. And mornings tended to be way, way more difficult than nights.

 

Tony considered leaving a note for Steve to lock up, and just sneaking out and flying off. At least that way he would be the one to go. That way, at least, he wouldn’t have to wonder.

 

Of course, there were other options too.

 

***

 

“So? Feel like skiing today?“ Tony’s heart drummed an irregular beat in his own ears.

 

Steve blinked at him over the coffee cup Tony had handed him as soon as he’d set a foot out the bedroom door. “Well,” Steve began blearily at the same time, “I don’t remember the last time I slept this long or this... What?”

 

“Skiing,” Tony repeated, tossing the word over his shoulder like a bone, forcing his most offhanded manner, “a nice day for it.” He waved towards Steve’s skis in the corner. He’d ventured another expedition into the kitchen, rescued two plates from an acute case of frostbite.

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Steve frown at him. One leg up on the armrest of the couch, he was standing there in his stupid undersuit, holding his coffee cup with both hands like something precious. Allied with a slanting ray of sunlight through the window, he was making the couch look disproportionately small and shabby by comparison. He caught Tony’s eye in the process of looking away, raised both eyebrows at him. “But I thought...” he began, and then stopped. Took a deep breath. “All right,” he conceded eventually, composing himself.

 

Just like that, without a cursory fight even? Tony brightened almost imperceptibly. “Yeah?” Almost instantly, Tony noticed something was off.

 

“Tony..” Steve began with a sigh, then seemingly changed his mind. “Yeah. I’ll... I’ll leave after breakfast.”

 

Tony froze for a heartbeat, then frowned; then he went on energetically opening the cans and cracker boxes. _What, just leave, after everything? I mean, why?_ And a thought that was colder but also more even-handed, was: _Well, why not?_

 

“Can I help?” Steve asked, keeping a polite distance, and nodded towards Tony’s breakfast project. His voice was as expressionless as his eyes. Very calm, though. Kind of empty. Resembling the glass apples Tony’s mom had insisted on keeping in a bowl.

 

Through the drumming of his heart in his ears, Tony heard himself say: “I actually found butter in the kitchen, can you imagine?” His voice sounded a bit quivery, even to him, but he soldiered on. “And there’s a toast fork. But it looks more like a trophy weapon than anything else. Also, toasting bread over open flame seems like your idea of fun, so if you’d like some toast...” He waved towards the fireplace. At the same time, almost frantically, Tony reviewed the conversation from the past two minutes, because he must have said something, and what could he have said that Steve could interpret as... Oh. _Oh._

 

“I’ll just... I’m all right with saltines, actually,” Steve was saying.

 

A good day for skiing, indeed. Of course it sounded like a request to leave. _There are your skis, cap, there’s no blizzard outside, don’t let the door smack you on your way out._ What else was Rogers _supposed_ to think, after the way Tony had acted yesterday? He stopped for a breath. Because, if this half-assed attempt at reparations was going to fail, it’d better fail in a blaze of glory, not over the stupidest case of miscommunication in history.

 

Steve sat down. Tony passed him a plate of assorted goodies (blue cheese and blackberry marmalade and salsa dip), then poured himself another cup of coffee. He then turned to Steve. This type of thing had never been easy, even when _they_ had been easier around each other.

 

“I was going to try an intermediate piste first, get back into gear, then get on with the fun stuff.” His words were soldiering on, one after another. No one would have been fooled by his forced offhandedness. “And then do one of my fave slopes, which is a bit more tasking, but hey, I’ve done it dozens of times when I was younger. It’s pretty late in the morning, and you know what, yeah, you can leave whenever you want, obviously.” He knew he was gazing at Steve with way more intensity than his own words warranted. “But,” he went on, “you could also come _with_ , you know. Since you are already here and all.” As he spoke, Steve’s eyes had gotten rounder with understanding. “Which, Cap,” Tony said, emphasizing every word, “is what I meant in the _first_ place when I said it was a nice day for skiing.”

 

Tony held Steve’s gaze. The man’s lips stayed parted for a moment, and then eventually formed a tiny word. “Oh.” said Steve. And then he said, “Well...” and then he said, “I certainly...”

 

And then, his eyes suddenly sharp, he stated: “Yeah, sorry, but that’s out of the _question_ , Tony.”

 

“What?” Tony said over a mouthful.

“You had fever yesterday. You can’t just go skiing.”

 

Tony’s eyebrows climbed in challenge and Steve gave him an exasperated look.

 

“I feel perfectly fine.” Tony did try to sound conciliatory. The irritation was just an automatic reaction to someone telling him what to do. “I’m not coughing at all. I haven’t even sneezed once.”

 

“You need to rest.” Steve’s earnestness could drive you up the wall, seriously.

 

“Well, I don’t _want_ to rest.” Because, how else do you say: _I’ve been looking forward to this trip as if one single day could save my entire life, and I can’t let it go to waste._ And how else do you say: _I’ve been dreading meeting you again, but somehow, somehow I can’t let this here go to waste either._

 

Tony might not have even noticed the fate of the poor armrest, only he heard it creak, and then he saw how white Steve’s knuckles were. Most of this argument, Tony realized, was unspoken, coursing back and forth in the air between them; someone had left the valves of their unexpressed frustration open. It was like a gas leak. Tony felt as if he was lying in darkness, waiting to hear the click of a lighter. And he was suddenly so sorry. Could they really not have a normal conversation about anything? He felt his face fall.

 

“Can we... not fight about this, Tony?” Steve echoed his thoughts, deliberately keeping his voice down. The man reconsidered for a moment, took a deep breath, tried for a smile without too much success. “Look, let’s stay here, I’ll keep you company if you want, we could – all right, you hate cards, but we could do _something_ , we could talk, we could _..._ ”

 

Which set off Tony’s alarms again, all at the same time, and he knew it was stupid, but he didn’t know what to do about it. Because a whole day here, in this tiny space, cooped up with Steve – well, it would make talking unavoidable, and Tony couldn’t, his gut hurt at the thought and he _couldn’t._ Not if they can’t manage to keep this _one_ simple conversation from turning into a fight for like three minutes.

Panic if Steve leaves. Panic if he stays. It was all panic, all of the time.

 

As Steve opened his mouth, probably to offer something else conciliatory, Tony heard himself say: “Gee, keep me company, that’s mighty big of you, Captain...”, and crap, it was too sharp, too mocking, too _soon_ , judging by his own inner barometer as well as by Cap’s eyes, that looked way too vulnerable for a moment there, then went all glass-apples on him again. Steve looked away, as if trying to get a grip. Then he got up, walked over to a bookshelf. Tony let him. Silence stretched.

 

Then – when it was beginning to look as if they would eventually turn to stone – with a considerable effort of will, Tony got up and walked over to the place where Steve stood staring at the book spines, his eyes vacant.

 

Tony touched him on the shoulder, just for a second, then let his hand drop. “See anything you like?” he said in a very soft voice, just to say something. Steve actually turned to look at him, which was, yes, a definite improvement.

 

“Look,” Tony said, still gently, and once he’d made an effort to open the tap, the words started practically chasing one another. “I haven’t had a real vacation in years, Cap. The last time Pep and I were going to get some downtime in Malibu, my house got blown up by terrorists, which, yeah, my own fault, I know, but _still._ And that was, what, four years ago? And before that? I went to Monaco for a weekend and got attacked by a Russian psycho who had a bone to pick with my dad, so go figure. And then I decide to come here, after more than two decades, and I catch a cold? Really? Sue me for self-pity, but I just want one day, _one_ fucking day of skiing and not _thinking_ about anything else but how to get to the next ski lift...”

 

A light touch on his elbow made him trail off mid-sentence. Strokes of a thumb, gentle, repetitive, at the sensitive spot where his  forearm met his upper arm. Soothing waves spreading in concentric circles, from the spot of contact and outwards; and for a second all he wanted was to close his eyes and be at peace. But instead he glanced down, towards the elbow, towards Steve’s gentle hand, and of course Steve had to misinterpret the look and he removed his hand hurriedly. _No_ , Tony wanted to say, _give it back, go on_ , _go on,_ but the thought wasn’t so coherent even in his own head, and he certainly had no words that matched the feeling.

 

“I know you need some time off,” Steve was saying. His eyes had gone soft, as he studied Tony’s face. “I was just...”

 

“Worried about me?” Tony said in slightly subdued tones. “Gee, what a villain you are. I don’t know how I put up with you.”

 

Steve shrugged it off awkwardly. “I still mean what I said. Obviously, I can’t stop you, but...”

 

“Yeah, about that...” Tony began. And a part of him that was all about emotional ultimatums wanted to say: _I’m going to go, and if you are afraid I’ll end up in a drift somewhere, freezing to death, feel free to come with._ But Steve’s gaze was soft around the edges, and he kept giving Tony these long imploring looks, and he seemed less inclined to bicker than before. And there was this _other_ part of Tony that wanted to say: _All right, fine, wrap me up in a blanket and  fuss over me some more. I give up._ The thought that it wouldn’t be so bad scared him half to death.

 

In the middle of the road, in between the two extremes, lay honesty, undistilled and unspiced with sarcasm, and more naked than Tony was comfortable with. So he rushed to get it over with.

 

“I took a Cortolan shot this morning.” He shrugged defensively. “So that’s that, it’s done already. Hate to see it go to waste.”

 

Steve frowned at him. “Weren’t those supposed to be for emergencies only?”

 

“Yes, well, you know how it is.”

 

Steve studied him. He’d – as far as Tony knew – never taken more than a cursory interest in pharmaceutical products that the Avengers had at their disposal, leaving that to more scientifically qualified members of the team. But, apparently, he knew enough to disapprove. “But it doesn’t solve the problem, doesn’t really make you better,” Steve said, “it just delays the effects.” And it took its toll too, and you sometimes crashed afterwards; it could be quite unpleasant. There was, after all, a reason you didn’t take substances like that for a simple case of sore throat.

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Tony said, instead of admitting that Steve was right. And then, with a fleeting memory of lips pressed lightly against his forehead, he added: “Cap... if we could view this as a necessary investment in my mental health and stop talking about it?” Tony was aware his smile was tight.

 

Steve scrutinized him for a moment. Then: “Stress.” (As if he’d made an actual discovery, Tony thought.) Steve leaned against the bookcase, that didn’t even creak in protest. It seemed to like him. “I’ve,” he went on, “known people to do things to themselves, when they needed to vent – I mean, far worse than take a stim and go skiing,” he observed, almost to himself.

 

“Let me guess. In field hospitals?”

 

Steve smiled a minuscule smile. “It often ended there, yes.”

 

“I bet the chemicals in question were worse too.”

 

“Well, they sure as hell weren’t Helen-Cho-approved.”

 

Tony relaxed. See, they could do this. “I thought to kind of go a little bit off-piste too, but not too far. And I’d have the suit on call, in case something happened. It could fly over in fifteen minutes or so, at worst. There are emergency protocols and all.” He considered for a moment. Then, because coercion didn’t feel right, and because, if Steve came with him, Tony wanted him to _want to_ , he said: “So, you see, it’s perfectly safe. I’ll be fine. You don’t... _need_ to come, if you don’t want to.” And then, since all the words up until then were pretty much the opposite of what he actually _wanted_  to say, he added: "But you _could_ , you know _._ Come. With me.” That was absolutely the closest he could manage to an outright invitation at this moment in time.

 

Maybe there was enough emphasis in his tone. Maybe Steve could read his face better than Tony supposed. The man snorted. “Yeah, I could,” he said. And: “Let’s go, then. We’ve wasted the best part of the day.”

 

***

 

The air around them was chill, but the sun was warm on their faces. The wind kept trying and giving up. Still, Tony was mildly irritated that Steve stubborny refused to wear a beanie or at least an earband. They sat side by side, their knees casually touching. How could so much heat radiate through layers upon layers of fabric? No, it must be a weird side effect of the stim shot. They hung between the earth and the sky; sightseeing in a limbo. From their vantage point in the ski lift chair, the landscape unfurling beneath them looked like something Hans Christian Andersen would gladly fuck up with an allegorical tale.

 

“So, where’d you learn to ski like that?“, Tony asked.

 

Steve pushed his goggles up onto his forehead and gave him a sheepish look, for some reason. “Italy.”

 

“How romantic.”

 

“Trained with the 10th Mountain Division,” Steve added.

 

Tony inclined his head. “Considerably less romantic,” he commented.

 

Steve’s skiing style was all business, conserving energy and mostly avoiding unnecessary flourish Tony was prone to himself. The man kept a tight rein on his jumps, not letting the moguls steal his control from him even for a second, and despite his size, he always landed softly like a snowflake. Not for a moment was his balance compromised. He seemed well-trained, and Tony had suspected it had had something to do with the war. But at the same time, his technique was bold and fast, and just a bit too cheeky, the way he skied he zipper line. Tony liked watching him. Actually, he’d let himself get so consumed that at one point his skis shot out from under him and he landed on his side, and went spinning downslope until he came to an embarrassing stop.

 

Steve seemed to be thinking about the same incident, unfortunately; because of course he’d had to glance up right at that moment, and see. “You really weren’t hurt? Back there?” he asked now.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Tony, I hope you wouldn’t...”

 

“I’d tell you if I was. I’m not an idiot.”

 

After a short consideration, Steve apparently decided not to comment on this last statement. Instead he said: “Yeah, but the stim.”

 

“Wouldn’t stop a sprained ankle from hurting _as_ it was being sprained.”

 

Steve nodded, but still stole a worried look at his companion not two heartbeats later. Tony caught it. Grinned reassuringly. “Look, Cap. I’ve absolutely no wish to end up hurt. I’d...”

 

Steve interrupted. “Yeah, the stim still worries me, though. The way I understand it, it can sometimes leave you suddenly sapped of energy, and...

 

“Not this fast.” It’d been only a few hours. The effects should last for at least 10 or 12. And yet, Tony couldn’t help but remember the one time he’d taken it before, when he’d crashed pretty badly afterwards. He was pretty sure Steve remembered that too. But that was an older generation of the substance, it’d been improved significantly since. Still: “The moment I feel anything weird, I’ll let you know, okay? I won’t act tough, Cap. I’ll let you bridal-carry me to the nearest patrol station if I have to.” He shot Steve a grin. ”I might even enjoy it.”

 

Just their usual banter, really. He must have imagined Steve’s sudden blush. It must have been a reaction to the cold. Because what the man said was an almost insolent: “Promise?”

 

Tony nodded solemnly and refused to think about any of it.

 

***

 

Skiing was the first time Tony, as a kid, had experienced something akin to flying. He remembered it vividly – how he’d left the expensive instructor to glare after him open-mouthed, his sentence unfinished, as Tony took off downslope, in and out of the powdery snow like a dolphin.

 

So he’d ended up on his ass, looking considerably less like a dolphin, so what?

 

Now, as he gazed down the mountainside at the untouched whiteness, he could practically feel his mouth water. And yet... Did the gradient somehow get way steeper with years or was it just memory, being a deceptive bitch it usually was? Steve’s face was unreadable behind his goggles; there was something weird in the line of his mouth. Hunger and excitement prior to an adrenaline rush, but something else too, something Tony couldn’t pinpoint.

 

And then Steve seemed to find the words that fit his expression. “So, what’s an orange square mean, in Europe?”

 

Tony glanced at the sign, blinked twice. “Huh.” And, with some hesitation: “It used to be a black slope, back when,” he explained. “Evidently they’ve reclassified it.”

 

Orange meant extremely difficult, he explained. Around here it also meant a completely ungroomed area with no ski patrols. Tony liked backcountry skiing better than sharing a piste with other people, at least when he was in a certain kind of mood. But to go backcountry on a slope of this degree? After you hadn’t skied in years? You’d have to be crazy.

 

He’d never admit that, but he’d been a little nervous about this piste to begin with, even when he thought it was still an actual _piste_. It was too long and too steep; in the U.S it would have been classified as a double black diamond. The only reason... well, the only reason he’d brought them here was that Steve was with him, and Tony was overtaken by a hot impulse to see him lose some of that perfect control. Not to see him falter or fall. Tony’d never want that, and besides, he suspected Steve could rock this slope no problem. No, what Tony wanted was to see him let go, just for a crazy instant, hear him whoop wildly into the wind, just once; just that.

 

The slope was intimidating. Yet, the trickle of fear was heady, and the vertigo-inducing incline was like an insistent itch before him, burning to be scratched, no matter what the price.

 

Steve crouched down on his skis for a moment, then sat down sideways, plonked on his ass and gave Tony a Look, a one that deserved a capital letter; stubborn and unrelenting. “No.” The word was as unmovable as the mountain they stood on.

 

“I thought you’d like it,” Tony said half-assedly. He’d been better at keeping the itch under control in the later years, and there was no reason for Steve to be such a drama queen.

 

“You know, I probably would,” Steve said and gave him the significant look number two. “That’s not the point.”

 

And Toy wanted to get angry, he really did, but instead there was something tugging at a corner of his lips, unstoppably upwards.” Come on, Cap, you can’t sit in the snow, it’s not done, you know that.” It was really silly, this fondness he felt.

 

Seemingly oblivious to his mood, Steve just shrugged.

 

“Well, two can play at that game,” Tony said, crouching down himself. He imagined he could see Steve’s eyes twinkle back, behind his goggles.

 

“I can sit here until dark,” Steve stated then.

 

Tony heard himself snort.

 

“Some would say that’s not overly safe either.” And: “What do you want me to do, Cap, go down that beginners’ trail and run into all the people I’ve been avoiding for two days?”

 

Exasperated sigh. “Pick an alternative route, Tony. A non-suicidal one.”

 

And the flimsy memory of not-a-kiss, and the warmth of Steve’s shoulder pressed against his as they read by the fire – all of it was suddenly stronger than the desire to push back. Because, in a moment of complete honesty with himself, Tony knew that, even if he had something to prove here, it wasn’t going to happen this way.

 

He got up, then extended his hand to help Steve up. Steve just shook his head.

 

“Aw, have some faith, for fuck sake,” Tony snapped, and reluctantly, Steve reached up.

 

 _Are we holding hands? Is this hand-holding?_ The thought was hot and frantic as they skied off the way they’d come, down a very gentle incline of the marked path, and then further southwards. Side by side. Steve’s left hand still held firmly in Tony’s right. Both of them holding their poles in opposite hands. Tony had tugged Steve up and dragged him off with a renewed enthusiasm, and somehow, _somehow_ they hadn’t let go of each other. But now, as the thought crossed his mind in a bout of panic, Tony wriggled his hand free and pretended to adjust his glove. The panic itself had been way too exciting.

 

***

 

It was weird, Tony reflected; he regarded this glade almost as his own brainchild. He had discovered it, true, when he was twelve; like hundreds before him, probably. But, as he wound between the branches heavy with snow, he couldn’t help but marvel at how there was no one around, ever, to revel in this quiet, brilliant beauty. Here, the water was present in three different states of matter at the same time – ice beneath his feet, the heavy, wet smell of snow and pine in the air around him, and the slow drip-drip-drip that shouldn’t be audible in the mountains, not this time of year, but on a southwardly exposed slope, at noon – it was. Three states of matter, three worlds meeting where they shouldn’t, like something out of a Norse myth. Each individual drop seemed to reflect a different ray of sunlight in a haphazard direction on its way down. If those had been lasers, not even Natasha could have snaked her way through them.

 

The slope was mild and the going slow, but the speed wasn’t the point. The smile spreading over Steve’s face took its sweet time too, but that didn’t make it any less worth the effort. Tony let himself revel in it, bask in it.

 

“So? Pretty?”

 

Steve turned the smile on him and almost made Tony lose his footing. _Again._ “Very pretty,” he replied.

 

This way lies ruin, Tony tried telling himself, but everyone knew he was never a one to listen. When he’d first tried woodland skiing, he’d learned that all you got from staring at the trees in your way was a crash and a possible contusion. No, you had to look at the spaces in between, always; and you couldn’t afford to think too much in advance. Anything beyond the next tree gate was distant future.

 

“Fancy some hot chocolate after this?” Okay, so maybe a little in advance was okay.

 

All Steve said was: “Oh,” and there was that tiny, happy oblong his lips sometimes formed. Tony was learning to appreciate the hell out of it: the shape that emerged when something pleasant caught Steve unawares.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tony said lightly. The corresponding swirl of warmth in his chest was... worrisome. And nice. He picked nice for now. He could at least have this one day before everything went to shit, like it probably would; memorize like crazy and stick everything into his mental photo album. This day, this glade, this smiling Steve and the silent companionship of trees as the two of them wound their way in between.

 

***

 

“So, you do have reception here?”

 

They were sitting outside a tiny, secluded inn, in the glaring sunlight.

 

Tony glanced up from his StarkPad. “Oh. Yeah.”

 

“Any news from your corporate friends?”

 

Tony arched an amused eyebrow. “Are you afraid that they will show up or that they won’t?”

 

Steve seemed to consider this seriously for a moment. “Well, I’m sure glad they _didn’t_. I just...” He took a sip of his chocolate. It was richer and sweeter than Tony remembered, or his tolerance had dropped with age, but Steve seemed to have absolutely no problem with it. He hummed appreciatively. “So good.” But as Tony still stared at him, he added: “I mean, the roads have probably been cleared by now. Will they... Is it going to be okay? That you invited them over and then blew them off?”

 

An impulse to say something harsher than what he really thought shot through Tony, for example _who gives a fuck about those assholes._ Over the years it had become a second nature. Just... _push_ Steve. Maybe because, if he didn’t, he might begin to expect something good in return. And it was always better and safer to be ready for the worst.

 

But today wasn’t about safe, or about pushing, it seemed, so what he said instead was: “I let them know I’m not feeling so well. I’ll drop by the resort tomorrow. No biggie, Cap. Don’t worry about it.”

 

It wrung Tony’s heart that Steve seemed almost grateful for every plain, non-combative sentence that came out of Tony’s mouth. The guy seemed somehow milder in return. Action and reaction. It was a marvel how simple laws of physics applied to humankind. Tony’d been right. Have some fun. Do things together. As long as they mostly avoided talking, they’d be fine.

 

Steve had to go and spoil it, of course.

 

“It was a little childish,” he said. “There, at the top of the trail.”

 

Tony pondered how to react to this, decided to go with poker-faced. “What was?” Well, maybe putting his shades back on right then was a tad dramatic.

 

Steve was sitting back, his legs stretching in front of him for miles. Tony always wondered how he fit into normal chairs. He now gave Tony a knowing look out of the corner of his eye. “Me, sitting down in the snow,” he explained. “It was childish.” More tense than mellow now. Clutching the mug with both hands as if it held answers.

 

Tony laughed, more in relief than anything else. “Oh, that’s okay, you’re okay, Rogers, don’t worry.” And he wondered at his own sense of relief, and he wondered at his own overly dramatic reaction to every word Steve said, as if they were all pregnant with emotional meaning, as if even the most innocent comment was a missile they shot at each other. And he knew, he _knew_ there was something brewing there, but honestly, he had no idea what to do with that or how.

 

Steve was still tense, though. _I have to stop studying every nuance of his face_ , Tony told himself, and didn’t listen.

 

Then: “I thought you meant me,” Tony blurted, and was instantly grateful he did have the shades on. He hid the rest of his face behind his chocolate mug and took a sip.

 

“Well, I wasn’t the _only_ one who sat down in the snow,” Steve shot back. That glint again, a blink-and-miss-it moment of insolence in his eyes, amidst all the tension. It disappeared almost before Tony could spot it. 

 

“Well, _you_ initiated it,” Tony pointed out with a lopsided grin.

 

Steve hid a smile. And then he looked down at the mug in his hands, then up through the shading of his eyelashes, right at Tony. A tiny blotch of color blossomed in his cheeks. If he wasn’t doing it on purpose, Tony mused, it was doubly unfair.

 

“Tony?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Tell me one thing.”

 

“Again, hm?”

 

Steve was still gazing at him under lowered eyelids. “What’s wrong with my name?”

 

Tony new what he meant, of course. But sometimes it was easier just to gloss over things, hope they go away on their own. “Meh,” he said. “Too boy-next-door. Ish. You need something with more character.”

 

Steve laughed, because what else could he do; but he did sound a little choked, Tony noticed. He regretted his offhandedness instantly. But honestly, what options did he have? In his head Steve was always just Steve, even during the worst of their fights, the ones he thought would never get resolved. ‘Steve’, and to him it was equal parts apple pie and smell of clean laundry and all the clichéd golden things on one side (no, no, drop that train of thought), and on the other – something cold and brittle and dangerous; icebergs and shards of glass. It held too much meaning, but he couldn’t say that to him. It was safer to just stick with ‘Cap’ or ‘Rogers’ and not touch the rest even with the welding gloves on.

 

“Care for another cup of the abomination?”, he said then, nodding at their empty mugs.

 

Tony didn’t know what he wanted exactly, but he _wanted_ , so much so that his blood was drumming in his ears again, and it wasn’t the stim, he _knew_ it; and he wanted Steve _here_ , for whatever reason, it didn’t matter, just to have him by his side, just to be near him; and he wanted to reach out and grasp Steve’s hand (warm and dry like the sunlight itself) and to not let go; he wanted to unsay all the stupid, insensitive thing’s he’d blurted out, pretending, always _pretending_ , always trying to make everything _less than_ ; he wanted to say something real, for once; Tony _wanted_. He thought the wanting might burn him up from the inside.

 

Steve shook his head. It took Tony a moment to remember what he was replying to. No more hot chocolate, then. “We should probably go,” the man said, and Tony could do nothing as he watched him draw back into his shell again, like he’d been doing the whole time. Try, reach out, get disappointed, retreat. As if they were looking for each other in a fog, extending their hands and missing by a few inches, ever missing. Tony seemed to say the wrong thing, always; he skated around the _right_ thing to the best of his ability. _Any_ right thing, anything that wasn’t a joke or an oversimplification or a cliché. He was careful not to say anything he wouldn’t say to, for example, Thor. No wonder nothing was working out.

 

It was like poker, really; when someone raised the stakes, you either followed or you left your money and went home. And Steve had been raising and raising the stakes since yesterday, somehow, and _god_ , Tony hated playing cards, he’d never been any good at them.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” he blurted. His throat was tight. Steve turned to stone mid-motion as he was getting up from the chair. Slowly, he sat back down. Didn’t quite look at Tony. No backsies now.

 

“Yes?”

 

Tony had no idea where he was going with this. Still, the only way was forward.

 

“I...” he swallowed. “Up there on the trail.” He made himself look directly at Steve. “I got scared.” It was nothing, really. Just cutting his gut open and spilling the contents onto the wooden table between them. Anyone could do it.

 

Steve blinked. Blinked again. “Well,” he said, and then: “Well, it was _dangerous_. The snowpack did seem pretty compact, but at that angle...” He shot a look at Tony, then shut up mid-sentence. Considered. “You didn’t _look_ afraid,” he said slowly.

 

Tony snorted. “Do I ever?”

 

“No, but you seemed...” Steve thought for a moment, as if every word mattered. (It did.) “You seemed so _eager_. All fired up.”

 

“Sometimes that’s the same thing as afraid.” Tony shrugged. “And then I got it under control.”

 

“And then you got it under control.” Steve echoed; he reached out, almost as if to cover Tony’s hand with his own, then thought better of it. Folded his hands on his lap. Gave the offending extremities a stern look. Let out the air in a huge puff. “I’m so _glad_ you got it under control,” he said, and shook his head, and there was laughter and quiver in his voice. Tony almost thought he heard an underlayer of tears too, but he must have imagined it. “Tony, I was _shitscared_ you’d just take off down that slope and that would be it.” A pause. “Was that supposed to be some kind of... a test?”

 

Tony looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone crazy. “A test?” he said. “ _No._ It’s just, the piste is way worse than I remembered it. Dammit, I just wanted to take you somewhere where you’d actually have fun, that’s all. No sinister motives, Cap.”

 

It was Steve’s turn to look confused. “But I _am_ having fun.” He gestured at Tony with both hands, apparently unconscious of what he was doing. “Of course I am. I’m having a great time.”

 

Tony’s heart skipped a wobbly beat.

 

There was more to that sentence than the simple sum of words. Steve’s eyes went to meet Tony’s, as if some kind of chemical affinity drew them together. Tony couldn’t look away either. His breath hitched, but hey, who needs breath anyway? Aware he sounded strangled, Tony managed: “Okay, maybe you’re enjoying the day, but that’s not the same thing,” he said, and an attempt at nitpicking made his heart resume the previous rhythm. He breathed out, some of the composure returning to him. “You’re here with _me_ ,” he spiced up his words with a tiny amount of bluster, just for the hell of it. “And you’re... you’re very _competent_ at what you’re doing, so of course you’re having a good time. Not the same thing as having _fun_ , though.”

 

Steve just smiled, seemingly accepting the game. “So, what’s having fun entail, then?”

 

“Oh. I don’t know. Something unexpected. Something irreverent.”

 

“All right.” Steve regarded him for a moment, his brows raised in amusement. “How about doing something new? Would that count?”

 

Tony allowed himself to grin.” Something new works.”

 

Steve hesitated for a moment. Tony could have sworn the man was staring intently at his lips. But Steve tore his gaze away, shook it off, whatever it was, and pointed to his left. “There.”

 

A guy in a green skiing suit was just leaving some of his gear against the timber wall of the tiny establishment. Tony arched an eyebrow. “You want to bang the old dude?”

 

The red details of Steve’s onesie flattered the sudden crimson of his face wonderfully. His voice remained admirably steady, though. “The snowboard,” he said with patience. Then nodded, as if to himself. “Yeah, the snowboard. I’ve never tried it before.”

 

***

 

They rented two sets of gear, and in the end Steve took to snowboarding like fish to water. Well. One big, golden fish that was used to having two legs but now had only one tail to steer with. Unlearning something is generally harder than learning, but Steve laughed and laughed whenever he tried to separate his legs but couldn’t, and ended up on his ass. And Tony watched him laugh and enjoyed showing him tricks and seeing him progress inhumanly fast after the few initial mistakes, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

 

And then they went back and changed gear again, and then they skied some more.

 

“I’m getting tired,” he said sometime in the late afternoon, because he’d promised, and because it was the responsible thing to do; and as much as he hated the idea of this stolen day ending, he was surprised to realize the thought of the fire and the snacks and dozing off wrapped up in a blanket seemed enticing. But _that_ now – that had to be the stim talking. He wondered vaguely if Steve would insist on soup again, and a tiny part of him sort of hoped he would.

 

They were walking up the path, the cabin already in sight, visible by the early moonlight. Steve was carrying both sets of skis (he’d insisted). Tony was walking behind him; he was getting weaker in the knees by a moment, his joints jelly, but as Steve leaned the skis against the cabin, Tony couldn’t help himself. He bent down, picked up a handful of snow.

 

Steve turned in outrage as loosely packed snow exploded against the back of his neck, but he just shook his head and his face melted into laughter. Tony grinned at him. “Told you you should wear a balaclava.”

 

It seemed Steve had decided to ignore his stunt, however. Serenely, he turned back to the cabin. And then, fast as a lightning, he bent down, and scooped, and catapulted a snowball straight into Tony’s face. Tony spluttered in outrage.

 

“This means war!”

 

But Steve ducked the next missile and the following one caught him in the chest, which wasn’t nearly as satisfactory. It proved impossible to hit him anywhere near the face again, but he still managed to feed Tony another loosely packed snowball, and the snow found it’s wet, crawly way into the collar of Tony’s ski suit. This could be repaid properly only one way, and he found himself barreling into Steve, hooking the man’s ankle with his right foot and pushing him backwards into the white and the soft and the deep. On his way down, Steve grabbed Tony’s waist and pulled him with him. And he must not have been trying too hard, because Tony managed to land on top.

 

Which was when Tony realized he was lying on top of Steve, whose arms were still wrapped around his waist; their faces were so close that the mist of their breath mixed and combined in the icy air. Which was _also_ when he realized that – no matter how much he told himself all he wanted was to make Steve eat snow – he’d been well aware of where this was going, or he should have been. And they were looking into each other’s eyes, lying there in the snow, and Tony was hyper aware of Steve’s hands at the small of his back, and he realized how delightfully weird but also natural this felt. Who could have imagined it last night? But today had changed something, thawed something. And although the last night’s almost-kiss on the brow had felt like a goodbye to Tony, he knew he wasn’t rational about any of it, at all. What if it had been a hello instead? It now felt as if they’d scrapped everything that had gone before and were back at first impressions, somehow. As if a million new options suddenly were opening around them, which was obviously a cause for even more panic, but it was a _good_ panic. And all Tony had to do to close the distance between them would be to drop his face a little lower...

 

Which was _also_ when Steve shivered violently, just once, and for all his assertions of _it’s nothing_ , it erased all the other thoughts from Tony’s mind, and he ushered him inside.

 

***

 

Barely ten minutes later, muttering something about _how the mighty had fallen,_ Tony had Steve swathed in blankets and seated on the sofa, his knees pulled all the way up to his chest. Tony busied himself with the fire. He was feeling  feebler by the minute, but he could manage this much. He also brought his suit gauntlet and pushed it on Steve. “I knew you’d catch a cold,” he grumbled.

 

“I told you, I’m not sick,” Steve insisted through chattering teeth as Friday checked his body functions, “I can’t get sick”; and, as Tony was bringing the water to the boil, for coffee, Friday confirmed it: “I’m detecting elevated heart-rate, boss, and periodic muscle cramps. But definitely no fever.”

 

It dawned on Tony then, what it was, and he plonked down on the other end of the sofa, although it felt more like collapsing. His knees finally gave way. He leaned his head against the back cushion because suddenly he lacked the strength to hold it upright. Still, he turned  to the left and gave Steve a look that might have fried him all the way to his bones.

 

“You asshole,” he said, but it came out with far less viciousness than what burned inside Tony. And then, calmly: “Breathe. Can you breathe through it? _Breathe_ , Steve.”

 

“Tony, I’m...” A violent shiver. “I’m _fine_.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Tony muttered darkly. His muscles had gone so week he thought he might sink _through_ the sofa if his concentration wavered. “And you let me complain about the weakness in the knees.” He felt like such an asshole. “Why didn’t you _say_ something, dammit, Cap?” It sounded more like a whine than anything else.

 

“I’m...” Steve began steadily.

 

“...fine,” Tony finished for him. “Yeah, you _aren’t_. And if I’d had a sliver of empathy, I’d have known not to drag you through snow and ice all day,” he added. By what Tony could see, Steve was hugging himself under the blankets; and all Tony wanted was to get closer, wrap his arms around him and hold him until it all got better. It wasn’t even about this crazy chemistry thing that seemed to have sprung up between them. At the moment all Tony wanted was to make Steve warm again.

 

“I _like_ skiing,” Steve insisted. “And I had a great time today.”

 

“Yeah, you’re having a panic attack from it, so I’d characterize it as not so great.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Steve said stubbornly and shuddered again, so fiercely that the whole sofa shook with him. “It’s just a tiny postponed reaction. No reason to worry. Really.”

 

“It’s happened before?”

 

Steve opened his mouth, then seemingly changed his mind about what he was going to say. Just: “Occasionally.”

 

“Can you tell me exactly what you’re feeling?”

 

Grounding was the trick, Tony knew that from personal experience. Keep Steve talking. Make him analyze this. Make him tear the sensation into tiny, digestible bits. _Not_ mention what caused the episode, _not_ talk about how Tony just tackled him, pushing him into the shit he’d spent seventy years in.

 

“I’m... cold from the inside,” Steve was saying. “Like... ice radiating outwards. From my spine. Like...” And nope, the distant look in his eyes was not good at all, and this line of thought had to be cut short.

 

“So, what do you usually do when this happens?” Tony’s voice was measured and just a little bit slurry from the feebleness.

 

Steve seemed to focus on Tony’s words. “Oh. It passes on its own. I’ve tried a hot water bottle, blankets, things like that, but really, it’s all in my head, it’s nothing to be...”

 

“It’s _not nothing_ ,” Tony said, with far more fierceness than he’d intended. He practically felt Steve’s next shiver vibrate through his own bones. He scooted a little closer, reached up. He needed to focus his will just to raise his hand, but he squeezed Steve’s shoulder over the blanket, and then tried to give him a clumsy, one-handed rub. And by now he was pretty sure his senses weren’t deceiving him. Because Steve leaned into the touch, he _did._ Still, the weakness was so overwhelming that Tony just let his hand drop and he collapsed against the back of the sofa, leaning his left cheek against the cushion.

 

Steve gave him a sharp look, more focused than anything in the last ten minutes. “Are you crashing down from the stim? Tony?”

 

“I’m _fi_...,” he started to reply, but at Steve’s expressive eye-roll he just guffawed weekly. “Yeah,” he said. And: “Fuck, I wish I could give you some of my fever, it might help you stay warm.”

 

Steve straightened up. “You’re the one who should be wrapped in blankets!” he stated, and – to Tony’s feeble, unvoiced protest – started to take them off, only to reflexively pull them back around himself as a new shudder shook him. It was too much for Tony. In an instant he was next to Steve, wrapping both arms around him – around his solid back, and around his knees, hugged so tightly to his chest; and he let his forehead sink against Steve’s shoulder. He had no strength left in his limbs, but he held on.

 

The onset of drowsiness ambushed him and pummeled him down. All resistance was futile. He could barely hold his eyes open, and his thoughts were starting to wander uncontrollably. It was as bad as the last time he’d taken the stim, he’d have sworn it under oath, all the research funds down the drain, with the rain (pretty rain), all for nothing, the effect on him hadn’t improved at all, but here was Steve, and they should have gone to Malibu instead, Steve would have liked Malibu, with the warm sand and the sun and everything, not this time of year, though, obviously, but... And Tony knew he was drifting away, but he didn’t let go of Steve; that was the one thought he held firm in his mind.

 

“Tony are you all right?” Steve’s voice sounded worried, somewhere out there, both far away and tantalizingly near.

 

“’M _fine_ ,” he slurred into Steve’s shoulder. And there was a sensation of Steve pulling away for a moment, by then, almost at once, Tony found himself propped up against a warm torso, two firm arms around him, and the blankets wrapped about them both, like a wooly tent. A part of him knew this was... not their normal, but that part got shushed into submission, and with a last effort of will Tony let his arms sneak around Steve’s waist, because that was the one major, important thought he refused to let go of: Keep Steve warm. Keep Steve safe.

 

“’M your hot water bottle,” he muttered into the large, hard chest his cheek rested against. Steve’s snort ruffled the hair on top of Tony’s head, like a breeze.

 

“Yeah, Tony,” he said softly. “You are.”

 

“And you’re always Steve,” Tony murmured, only half aware his words didn’t make much sense to anyone but himself.

 

***

 

Tony came to in a pile of warmth. He knew he’d been asleep, but it took him a moment to remember where he was, and _oh shit shit shit..._ But it wasn’t a real panic, more like an expectation of panic that never came. And, in contrast to all the times that day he’d heard blood roar in his ears, he now felt strangely at peace, strangely sated. His muscles were still languid and watery, but his thoughts were back to passably clear.

 

“Hey, Cap,” he said as if absolutely nothing was out if the ordinary, because all the other options were beyond imaginable; he could feel Steve’s warmth against his cheek.

 

“Hey, hot water bottle.”

 

Tony buried his face back into Steve’s chest and groaned. “Oh god, I said that aloud, didn’t I?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“What else?”

 

“Nothing much. You feelin’ better?”

 

“Well,” Tony considered. “I’m back at being able to form a sentence, apparently; but I’m still Cousin Boneless.”

 

“The _what_?”

 

Tony felt Steve’s guffaw reverberate all the way through him. “Oh, boy,” he said, refusing to consider all the interesting things this did to his innards. “You’ve missed out on everything, haven’t you.” Trying to inventory his own limbs wasn’t a good idea either, because they were hopelessly entangled with the warm mass of blankets and... well, _Steve._ “It’s a cartoon,” Tony soldiered on, desperately aware of how good and solid Steve’s arms felt around him. “It’s called _Cow &Chicken_, look it up.” But he was too weak to do anything about any of that, even if he’d thought it was a good idea at the moment, and it probably wasn’t. ”On second thought, no;  don’t ever watch it. I don’t want to hear how much you hate it.” He took a deep breath. Listened to Steve’s heartbeat for a moment or two. “Cap?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m _so_ sorry.”

 

“Are you drifting again?” Concern in Steve’s voice sent a shiver of guilty pleasure down Tony’s spine.  “What are you talking about?”

 

“Look. I should have guessed. About your coldness thing. Shouldn’t have dragged you here.”

 

An irritated sigh. “I like it here. I told you that.”

 

“Still, we could have gone somewhere else. Somewhere warmer.” Warm. It was warm under the blankets, and the way their body heat mingled and stacked, they could probably boil a potato between them.

 

Tony heard a note of stubbornness in Steve’s voice: “Yes, but this way I get to win. I get to go out and ski and do what I want. I’m not letting the cold defeat me.”

 

“Admirable,” Tony said dryly, or tried. But, to be honest, he _liked_ this new development between them, where they actually told each other things. And he actually _did_ find it admirable, the way Steve faced his fears without rushing headlong into danger in order to prove them nonexistent. But he couldn’t just say that, could he? It was difficult to gauge what a proper reaction would be, so: “Kudos to you for that.” And then, a beat later: “No, I actually mean it. But I bet you’d have liked Malibu better. Beaches and all.”

 

Steve went very still for a moment. Tony could feel his muscles tense up and wondered what was wrong.

 

But, apart from a certain amused dryness in his response, nothing seemed out of order. “What, this time of year?” Steve asked.

  
Tony thought he must have imagined the weird reaction. His senses were probably all over the place. Besides, they were sitting here, practically cuddling... “No, not really.” No, not _practically_. Cuddling. Together.  “In summer, though...” And what did it all mean? Was he mistaken, was this a weird friendship thing instead? PTSD buddies unite and all that. Was he just keeping Steve warm? Was Steve just... well, whatever he thought he was doing, taking care of Tony? “Early autumn’s also nice,” he heard himself say and was grateful for his autopilot. “Ever been to Malibu, Cap?” His mind was slanting towards swirly mists again, but he could manage a light conversation.

 

Steve tensed. Definitely tensed. His palms had been relaxed, somehow so natural against Tony’s back (and it felt _sooo_ good). But now Tony felt them twitch for a moment, as if Steve was going to bunch the fabric of Tony’s shirt, clutch it in his fists. He flattened his hands then, but they didn’t feel so relaxed any longer.

 

Something was brewing here. “Malibu?” Steve said lightly. “Been there once.” His lying liar of a voice seemed perfectly steady. As if Tony couldn’t feel his sudden tautness with his whole body.

 

Then a thought crossed his mind, a possible explanation. “Now or in your previous life?” he asked carefully, wondering if he was going to get the story from Steve and if it had anything at all to do with Howard.

 

But: “Actually...” Steve made a small pondering noise in his throat, the one Tony had learned to recognize as Steve wondering whether to say something or not. “It was in 2012. You’d invited me over.” Steve’s voice felt deceptively light.

 

Tony _knew_ this had to carry a hidden significance, but try as he might, he was drawing a complete blank. “Really? I have no memory of it whatsoever. What did we do?”

 

A snort, that somehow didn’t sound too amused. “Nothing. You never showed up. So I left.” He fished one hand out from under the blankets and absently ran his fingers through Tony’s hair, just the once.

 

Something pierced Tony’s midsection. An acute awareness that he’d fucked up, although he couldn’t quite understand how or why. It was a sickly feeling and Tony hated it. “I remember now,” he said gently. “ _Steve_. I’d offered you the use of my house, if you wanted to.”

 

A noncommittal huff. “You said: ‘You should come over to Malibu sometimes, Cap. Shoot some pool, go for a swim. How about the next weekend?” His Tony-voice wasn’t half so bad, actually.

 

“Did you memorize the actual words?” Tony said in wonder.

 

Steve hummed noncommittally. His voice was very soft and sort of resigned. “I came, and then JARVIS told me you’d left me the override codes in case of an emergency, and that the fridge was full, and that I could stay for however long I wanted. And that you were at a conference. In Japan. For two weeks.”

 

“You could have stayed and had fun. It was a great house.”

 

“Yeah, it was.”

 

“Steve?”

 

“Usually, when you invite guests over, you are supposed to be there.”

 

The traces of old, faded disappointment leaking into Steve’s tone pushed Tony into the mild defensive stance. “Well, I thought you could use a luxury vacation after slumming it across America on your motorbike. Sue me. I didn’t think it’d matter if I were there or not.”

 

Which was when Steve’s hand found its way into Tony’s hair again, his fingers moving slowly back and forth. His words were filled with an odd, stifled tenderness. “It mattered to _me._ ”

 

Tony’s chest swelled with unbearable feelings. How much could four words ache all of a sudden, he wondered. And another part of his mind, the one that was usually on its merry way, analyzing this or that, produced another thought. Lust made people do weirdest things to you, wonderful or possessive or filthy. It made them kiss you and bite you and touch you and claim you and even hurt you a little. But only someone who loved you ever wanted to simply pet your hair.

 

 _It mattered to me._ Oh god, the way Steve said it. “I didn’t know. Steve, I...” Tony stopped to take a breath. “Look, I suck at friendship or whatever, all right?”

 

A breathy laugh. “Bullshit.”

 

This made Tony peculiarly affronted for some reason. “Aw, come on. I don’t know when anyone’s birthdays are, and even if I do, I can never remember to even send an e-mail. I can’t remember to tell Friday to remind me. I never know what’s going on in anyone’s head. I don’t know what people _want._ I don’t know what people _think._ I’m too absorbed in my own business to even ask. I’m best on my own,” he concluded stiffly.

 

Steve’s voice seemed to have recovered some of it usual dryness. “And for all of your not-caring, you made us drink those disgusting chlorophyll smoothies.”

 

“Rude, Cap,” Tony escaped into their old routine. “They’re really good for you.”

 

“Exactly. And... Why are you making me say all this, Tony? You always worry about everyone’s safety, and you made me a study with northern exposure because you figured I liked to draw, and you always designed specialized gear for everyone...”

 

Steve’s words had been growing more and more passionate, and Tony couldn’t deny it felt good, hearing them, nestled like he was in Steve’s arms. It was like a wet dream. _Hold me close and tell me nice factoids about me._ “I don’t think it’s supposed to be about _things_ ,” he said, not allowing himself to get distracted from his train of thought.

 

“No,” Steve said firmly. “I think it’s supposed to be about the intent behind the things. And I don’t know what’s in anyone’s head either,” he added, somewhat hotly. “I don’t think anyone does. That’s not... it’s not a measuring contest. You’re a good friend. You’re _my_ good friend.”  

 

And, inevitably, in his mind Tony heard an echo of the words uttered months ago. _He’s my friend. So was I._ Both statements true, both statements painfully unfair. But all the old rot that exploded in Tony’s chest was suddenly suppressed, suddenly easier to stand, when Steve’s arm tightened around him drawing him impossibly closer. Somehow, that made it all bearable. But Steve buried his nose in Tony’s hair, and his breath hitched a little, and Tony knew he was thinking about Siberia as well.

 

“Steve, don’t,” he said firmly, with as much reassurance as he could.

 

“I didn’t _mean_ it to turn out that way. I...”

 

Tony knew that. It didn’t always help, but he knew. “Yeah, neither did I. We’ve been through this already.” He made a conscious effort to make his voice gentler. “I _do_ know.” He was only vaguely aware of his own hands around Steve’s waist, now touching more freely, caressing, rubbing tiny circles into the small of Steve’s back as if that could alleviate the pain. “Look, you think I haven’t forgiven you. But I have. I _have_. I’m done with that.”

 

Steve was silent for a beat. Then: “So, why...” He trailed off, but they both knew what he meant.

 

“Because I didn’t know what comes next,” he hurried to get it out while the magic still worked, before he changed his mind. “It wasn’t about forgiveness any more, once we... well, once we sorta-talked about it. I simply didn’t know where to go from there. How do I proceed? How do we do this?” Tony heard his own words become more heated as they approached the core of the problem. _This_ was important. _This_ was precisely what he didn’t want to get into in the first place.

 

“I actually think we’ve been doing pretty good,” Steve said quietly. "Today.”

 

“Yeah,” replied Tony.  “But it’s just one day.” And that was the simple truth.

 

After that, it was as if there wasn’t much left to say. Tony sank a little lower into Steve’s arms, that were around him again – the left one still hidden under the blankets, the right one on top of them. And Steve rested his chin on top of Tony’s head, and they both breathed for a little while, oddly in sync, and Tony listened to the steady beating of Steve’s heart.

 

“When I said I wanted to talk to you...” Steve began with a new matter-of-factness.

 

Tony groaned. “I just think we should try to move forward,” he said, too curtly.

 

Steve wasn’t to be distracted from the course, though. “I‘m not saying let’s dwell on the past,” he said. There was some desperate courage there, as if he wanted, needed to get  things out, no matter the consequences. “I don’t want to tell you again all the things I’ve already told you. I just...” It was his turn to sigh audibly, probably at the way Tony wriggled in his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. “ _God_ , Tony. _This_ is talking, all right? That’s all I meant, that’s all I want. Not some... whatever you’re thinking. Just... _this._ ”

 

“Yeah, it’s working because I’m all emotional because I’m having a meltdown from the stim. And the circumstances won’t be so easy to replicate since I’m not metabolizing that shit ever again.”

 

“You’re having a meltdown?”

 

“Not really.” He paused. “Maybe a bit. Look, Steve, I...” Tony stopped. It seemed another groan would be the only possible way to do justice to his feelings. He had to say something in return, though, he knew that; but squeezing the words out may have been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. “You’re a good guy, with a heart of gold.” It came out softer than he’d expected. “You’re my good friend too. I just don’t know what to do with everything that happened. I didn’t want to deal with it. So I didn’t call. But now... I know I want you _there._ I think we should... I don’t know how to say this, everything sounds stupid. _Spend time together._ Something like that. Try to figure things out. I want to... Do you know the principles on which the BARF is based? Never mind. Look, I want to create a shitton of memories, _new_ ones, _real_ ones, with _you_ , and just... superimpose them over the old shitty ones, push the crap out. Like what we did today. Does that make sense?”

 

He wriggled out of Steve’s embrace, just a bit, so that he could look him in the face, see him nod once. The fragile, raw fondness there. _Holy hell._ Just the way to crush Tony’s heart into tiny, squishy bits. He stared at Steve because he couldn’t possibly look away. Steve stared back. This was that one moment; afterwards, people always said they didn’t know who closed the distance, who initiated the kiss, they said that their lips just melted together on their own accord. This never happened in real life, in Tony’s experience. At least not when you were sober. Someone had to take the initiative. And all two of them did was gaze into each other’s eyes, fixed to the spot, stock-still, and the moment prolonged, and became uncomfortable, and Tony was beginning to feel stupid; and the worm of indestructible skepticism in his heart wondered if he’d misinterpreted absolutely everything. But no, the tenderness in Steve’s eyes, the faint blush along his cheekbones, the...

 

“So, do you surf?” Tony blurted out before he could say something even more stupid.

 

A surprised laugh escaped from Steve’s lips, transforming his face into something more familiar. “What?”

 

“Surfing. Do you surf?”

 

The resulting smile was a little lopsided. “I don’t know, Tony. Is it anything like snowboarding?”

 

“Maybe a little.”

 

“Then maybe I surf a little,” Steve concluded with a glint in his eye. Tony suppressed the impulse to swat him on the arm. It was as if another peculiar moment had passed and suddenly everything seemed back to normal somehow, but a _better_ normal. “So?” Steve prompted. “Are you going to teach me?”

 

“I don’t know, would you like me to? Because I’m thinking Australia.”

 

Steve lowered his eyelashes and gave Tony _that_ look again. No, he had to be doing it on purpose, he had to. “Where it’s warm this time of year?” he asked mildly. “Sunny? No snow?”

 

“Yep,” Tony said as if didn’t matter one bit, although they both knew better. He paused for a moment, then allowed: “Also, in between doing fun things, we can talk a little too. If you absolutely insist.”

 

“All right,” Steve murmured and ran his thumb along the nape of Tony’s neck, so lightly it could have been a brush of air.

 

“All right.” Tony echoed and leaned against his chest.

 

They dozed off not long after, in each other’s arms, in a cocoon of warmth and safety that was better left unquestioned for now, like they wouldn’t have believed possible 24 hours before.

 

***

 

The parting kiss had landed so near a corner of Steve’s lips that the spot could be called ’cheek’ only out of courtesy. Tony had flown him to the rendezvous point, where Steve was supposed to meet the chopper. Steve had stepped on Iron Man’s boots, put his arms around Tony’s waist – where they’d been resting for the better part of the night – and the force of the repulsors had taken them to the destination. It happened too fast, it was over too soon.

 

Steve imagined Tony was reluctant to let go of him, if for a fleeting moment. But then it was all business, and ‘Laters, Cap’, through the voice filters of the suit. Steve _understood._ He wasn’t sure how to deal with this either – how were they supposed to behave now, what were they to each other, what were the rules? ( _How can you break the rules if you don’t know what they are_ , flickered through his mind, uninvited.)

 

But then Tony’s helmet retracted into his suit and, quick as a thought, he pecked Steve on the cheek and fled into the skies. It happened almost too fast to be properly appreciated, but the ghost of Tony’s lips still burned on Steve’s face like fire. No, not like fire. Like sweet, painful kiss of hot chocolate on your tongue when you’re too impatient to wait for it to cool off. And Steve stood, looking up, one hand raised in goodbye, long after Tony became just a distant speck in the sky.

 

***

 

“So, you’ll call?” Steve had asked earlier, with a small smile. They were still in the cabin. Leaving the cabin behind felt a bit like one tiny, happy world ending.

 

Tony had looked up to meet his eyes. Blink and miss it, but he did. “Yep.” He was _very_ busy packing, bustling about, muttering about how the electricity needed sorting out and this was no way to have a vacation. Somehow, he didn’t sound too serious.

 

“As in, really call? Not just a leave me a voicemail?”

 

Casually, Steve had asked if it was okay to store the skis here, and Tony had agreed with an even more casual shrug. He could outcasual you any day. At this latest question, Tony looked at him as if he had no idea why in the world this was being discussed at all. “I’ll _call_.”

 

He did. And Australia happened two weeks later. The sun was warm, the sand warmer, but Tony’s hand at the small of Steve’s back when he showed Steve how _not_ to stand up on the surfboard was a magmatic geyser. It was as if a haze settled over Steve, and he felt himself pulled along into the world of laughter and acres of wet skin and gratuitous touching; hands on shoulders, elbows bumping elbows, feet stepping on feet on the soft, sandy bottom of the sea. Knees randomly brushing against knees. Everything perfectly tame. Everything so heated he thought there must be burn marks left on his skin. And Tony’s eyes, so lovely, so open, like Steve never thought he’d see them again; only for him.

 

This was when Steve fucked up.

 

Steve tumbled from the board into the water, and Tony splashed some into his face by way of punishment, and in seconds it turned into a full-fledged splashing war. The surfboard drifted beside them, forgotten. They were just far enough from the shore that Steve couldn’t touch the bottom with his feet. And Steve didn’t put two and two together, not in time, or he’d forgotten for a second, but a second was enough; and, laughing ever so hard, he’d dunked Tony’s head under the surface.

 

A frantic, wild kick underwater; Tony pushing away form him, shooting away; his head braking surface like an arrow; eyes scrunched up, mouth gasping for air. Steve was beside him in two seconds flat, wanting to hug him tight, the tightest, but not daring to. In the end settling for a light, fleeting touch on both shoulders and keeping his arms open in case Tony decided he wanted them. Tony didn’t. And _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m an idiot, I didn’t mean to_ and _It’s fine, Cap, Steve, I’ fine, it was just a moment, I’m fine._

 

It was over in a minute. As if nothing ever happened.

 

“C’mon on, Cap.” Tony took his hand and started dragging him towards the shore with that new-idea-look on his face, but it seemed just a little forced, just a little too cheerful.

 

“Where are we going?”, Steve asked, because playing along seemed like the best option, and also, if Tony wanted out of water, that was the prerogative. But a pit opening in his stomach felt icy and white.

 

Soon enough, they were lying in the wet sand, shallow water splashing against their legs and stomachs. On their backs, side by side; almost touching but not. Steve sneaked a peak. Tony lay with his eyes closed, seemingly relaxed in the sun. But the laughter seemed to have drained out, and the crazy, cloudy haze was gone from Steve’s mind, leaving a sickly insecurity in its wake. And what he’d dubbed _heat_ between them also seemed to have dissipated. Steve looked at him, and now it was just Tony, lying there, taut and tired and familiar; and his features were so sweet and dear Steve thought his own heart would explode behind his eyes. He wanted to wrap him in his gaze and just hold him, keep him safe forever. Just being beside him could be enough. Just being there. Sated and relentlessly wanting. Enough and not nearly enough. The eternal puzzle.

 

“But you still like water,” he heard himself say, and that was the ticket, that was the key. 

 

Tony opened his eyes to glance at him, and Steve propped himself up, leaning on an elbow, looking down into his face.

 

“I always loved the ocean,” Tony said, as if answering a riddle.

 

“Is it like... an instantaneous onset of panic?” Steve’s own reactions were slow brewing, more of a woodworm, staying on the inside, where no one could see it, where no one would _know_. Only sometimes he would get chills. Afterwards. Tony’s thing seemed more abrupt, more violent. And Steve wanted to understand, he needed to. He wanted to know _everything._

 

“It’s like... No.” Tony thought for a moment. “It’s like, I get scared that I’ll panic. Like, I know I tend to panic in situations like that and...”

 

It was like a revelation.  “You’re afraid of fear.”

 

Tony gave him an unnecessarily grateful look. “Yeah...” A pause. “Dammit, Cap. Together, you and I make for one semi-functional human being.” And then, with more of his usual confidence: “I’m _not_ letting this shit ruin surfing for me.”

 

This was when Steve kissed him. He didn’t mean to. Well, he did, but maybe not just then. Maybe he just wanted to lean his forehead against Tony’s and stay like that. But then his lips were on Tony’s, all salty and soft; Steve would have been content just to leave them there, just to go on feeling Tony’s lips with his own for all eternity. And there was a trickle of doubt, of fear: what if he’d been wrong all along, what if Tony didn’t want this, what if... But Tony opened his mouth, and their tongues met, and Steve could feel hot happiness and doubt course through him like a cocktail. His eyes were closed, but suddenly he felt an arm around his neck, pulling him closer, firmly, demandingly. Then another one, sneaking around his waist; and then he was on top of Tony, feeling his almost naked body under his own, pressing against it, insistent, wanting to touch everything, feel every inch of skin.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” murmured Tony in between the kisses. His name on Tony’s lips, still so new and almost painfully good. He pulled back for a moment, but Tony moaned softly in protest, reaching after his lips for one more touch. Then, a little shakily, almost conversationally: “Steve, tell me what we’re doing.”

 

And: “We’re kissing,” Steve murmured in between soft kisses they both kept reaching for.  “I thought you’d know, a worldly fella like you.” And he wanted to sink into Tony’s eyes, get lost in them for all eternity.

 

“God, Steve,” Tony said then. “You’ve caught a case of feelings, haven’t you?”

 

Steve’s heart stopped for a moment; he hesitated, then let the doubt take over, the reasonable being that it was; the doubt, that’d been telling him not to rush this, telling him to wait. It had been right. Of course it had. Nothing so good could ever happen for real.

 

The key was not to make a big deal out of this now. He rolled off of Tony, lay on his back, the wet sand a sharp irritant under his skin. He breathed in and out and let himself disappear a little inside his own icy pit.

 

***

 

Well, that was how Tony fucked up.

 

He knew it as it happened. He knew it while the words were escaping his mouth, stupid words, he’d always hated words.

 

First, his tiny, measly bout of panic. And then the surge of perfect feelings when Steve finally, _finally_ touched him, when he leaned down like Tony wouldn’t have dared and put his lips to Tony’s, and sealed Tony’s world to himself... All of it had left Tony on the verge of tears; it was too much, it was all too much.

 

And now this bullshit. He didn’t mean it, not like that, not like what Steve heard. And anything Tony could say now would make things worse, it would ring untrue, like an excuse, like a poor way out, like a _no, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I meant it like..._

 

What did he mean it like?

 

It was his turn to get up on an elbow, look down into Steve’s closed-up face. Until recently, he never knew how much he’d missed that face, how painful the gush of sweetness could be when he just glanced at it. That’s why he’d never dared look too much, never too long. He’d  been stupid, stupid, stupid...

 

And maybe the truth was stupid too, but it was the truth, and you can’t pick your truths, and that was all there was to it.

 

“I told you you would catch a bug if you stayed in that cabin,” he murmured. He knew his voice was choked up. “You always think you can’t catch anything. But you caught a case of feelings, so yeah. _From me_ , Steve. And I told you you needed to be careful, I told you. But do you ever listen? No.”

 

Steve’s eyes popped open, and something in Tony’s chest opened up in turn.

 

“Yeah?” Steve said. His voice was as choked as Tony’s, Tony noticed, but it was definitely good choked.

 

“Yeah,” Tony confirmed. “A serious, full-fledged case of feelings.”

 

And he let his lips sink onto Steve’s, a promise, and he let his hands stray into Steve’s hair, touching, caressing, petting tenderly, like he’d wanted to do for a long, long time now.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about either skiing or surfing. I did do some research, but there are probably mistakes or weird references there. 
> 
> Please drop a comment or leave kudos if you enjoyed it and thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> Also, I have [tumblr](https://the-vorkosigan.tumblr.com/), so find me there if you like.


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